The Photonic Effect: A Quantum Love Story

MIKE CHEN

EXCERPTS FROM OFFICIAL RETIREMENT FILE

Demora Kim

Final Rank: Captain, Galactic Cluster Fleet—Starship Horizon Advanced materials from retirement file—DO NOT DISTRIBUTE

Final Starship Command Specifications

Name: GCF Horizon

Registry: GCF HP2X19

Class: Pathfinder 2

Length: 243 meters

Width: 75 meters

Deck 1: Bridge, Captain’s Quarters, Crew Quarters Deck 2: Stellar Cartography, Mess Hall, Crew Quarters Deck 3: Runway/Docking Bay, Storage Hangar, Science Lab, Observation Lounge Deck 4: Engineering, Crew Quarters, Senior Officer Quarters Deck 5: Brig, Medical Bay

Key Dates During Command (Earth Standard)

January 16, 2291: Launched for deep space exploration to establish and map a new trade route for Cluster systems on trajectory 8793, bearing 9701 (crew count: 72) February 10, 2291: Pulled into photonic gravity well, approximately 20,398 light-years from Sol System

April 20, 2293: First deaths of original crew members (3) March 20, 2298: First recorded activity of volatile energy within gravity well May 18, 2298: First contact with Lumersian photonic species August 25, 2298: First implosion of neighboring craft within gravity well November 29, 2299: Death of First Officer Grant Singh January 30, 2300: Initial development of photonic engine begins in conjunction with Lumersians

May 21, 2301: Return to Cluster space (total passengers: 93—over capacity; 33 original crew members, 12 field-recruited crew members, 48 refugees requesting asylum) April 4, 2301: Assigned for specialized research (crew count: 18; 13 original including captain, 5 field-recruited)

October 28, 2301: Incident at Base Theta Seven

Selected Excerpts, Exit Interview (December 15, 2301)

On the gravity well

Kim: Lost. Stranded. Stuck. Whatever you want to call it. Neera would say we got caught in a photonic convergence point as the Lumersians were running an experiment. Like flooding an interaction of photonic and physical space. Great science for them, bad gravity for anyone else. We got trapped. Other ships got trapped. Some from parallel universes. In the gravity well, the only way to survive was to lean on one another. And it worked, until the well itself began collapsing on us. On returning to Cluster space

Kim: Well, GCF ships greeted us with guns. That was our introduction to the war. You ask why it was so disturbing, I mean, war was ancient history to us. The Expansion Frontier War was a school lesson!

Then we see even science and research officers on front lines against the Withdrawal Movement?

Sometimes I still can’t believe it happened. On Photonic Being #910047

GCF Command: What is the significance of Photonic Being Number 910047?

Kim: We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Chuck. When the gravity well collapsed, he sacrificed himself. GCFC: I’m sorry, did you call him “Chuck”?

Kim: That was my nickname for him. GCFC: A nickname. So you were friendly with this photonic being?

Why aren’t there more details about him?

Kim: (Long pause) With all due respect, that’s private. On the incident at Base Theta Seven

GFCF: Can you explain why you chose to disobey orders at Base Theta Seven?

Kim: You want my polite answer or my honest answer?

GFCF: It’s for the official record. Kim: All right. It’s gonna make some of you look bad. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. TWO MONTHS EARLIER…

CHAPTER 1

DEMI

Captain Demora Kim never expected to be a mechanic on board her own ship. She didn’t have the quali cations—she wasn’t an engineer or a technician. She

studied cartography at the Galactic Cluster Fleet Academy, which didn’t really

apply to repairing hardware. But things always broke on the GCF Starship Horizon, often leaving the

closest person available to x the problem. In this case, she’d told the crew that she’d meet them down at the mess hall

for ramen night soon. Classi ed war intel was coming through, and she just

needed a minute. But a minute didn’t su ce, because the message wasn’t

processing at her private station. So she’d walked down the hall from her

quarters to the bridge, though at the path’s end, the elevator tempted her to just

leave and go get ramen. However, she did the responsible thing—the captainly

thing—and stepped forward. Two doors slid open, revealing the large—and empty—bridge of the

Horizon. Through the wide front window, a blanket of space and stars lay

ahead. In front of that, a oating hologram of the ship’s statuses projected from

the large square data table. Normally, she’d head right to the captain’s chair near

the back of the rectangular space. But instead she turned immediately to the

corner comms station. She knelt down to the access panel, a sheet of alloy

covered in magnetic decals of rock bands spanning nearly three hundred years—

a giveaway that Lieutenant Lynn Kohli was both the ship’s communications o cer and resident music bu .

Demi unlatched the panel and slid it o to

expose wiring and hardware, then got onto her back for a look. There it was. Just as she’d suspected, the chip that drove routing of incoming classi ed

messages had simply fallen loose. It happened every few months, like many other

things on the Horizon, because parts wore down, got damaged, needed

haphazard xes. Ten years stuck in a mysterious gravity well would do that to

hardware. Demi traced her nger along the edge of the chip until she got to the

exact right angle to lock it in, then pushed. It clicked into place. She sealed up the panel and stood up, then tapped the

console to process the message right here on the bridge. Stuck, then unstuck. Kind of like the Horizon itself. And just like the Horizon, the chip saw war when it got unstuck—here, in

the form of communications regarding the ongoing civil war with the

Withdrawal Movement. Demi went to her seat and glanced at the clock, a

reminder that her skeleton crew were down in the mess hall. A captain and her crew of seventeen didn’t exactly ll a starship built for

seventy-two. But when things actually worked, Demi found the empty ship a

peaceful, almost stable environment for the greatest of scienti c endeavors: to

restore the photonic engine that brought them home. Such a project proved a

blessing: scienti c progress and a reason to stay far away from the front. None of

them needed the turmoil of the war; they’d seen and lived worse. Because those seventeen people down at ramen night were more than just

crew members. Getting trapped with no outside communication or support caused all sorts

of things to claim the lives of their colleagues. And when other spacecraft got

pulled into the well, distrust and sabotage took more of them until Demi forged

truces between the often at-odds groups. Then the well grew unstable, eventually imploding neighboring ships, and

panic took over: skirmishes over supplies, emergency repairs that wouldn’t quite

hold, and long, empty nights debating whether it was worth it to go on. No, they weren’t just crew. Or friends. Or family. They were survivors together. Demi lingered on that when the wide holographic display shifted from ship

status to an incoming classi ed message about a war she wanted no part of. Or at least, it started to. CLASSIFIED—FOR YOUR EYES ONLY appeared

before dissolving to the sight of Galactic Cluster Minister of Defense Cabell. Cabell opened his mouth before the image froze and a system warning appeared,

along with a schematic of comm array hardware. Primary classified decoder failing—rerouting to secondary array

This issue had nothing to do with a loose chip. It ashed several times before

Rerouting successful appeared and the message played out. “To all fleet captains. I apologize about the mass outreach, but it was the most

efficient way to reach all of you given the rapidly unfolding situation. An incident

occurred on the central mining station of the gas moon Ark Getru in the Nedotia

System.” The image changed from Cabell to the station itself, a diamond-shaped

con ux of alloys designed for mining gas and supporting a massive civilian

community. “This is a select edit of security footage. I am warning you that this is

not easy to see.”

It started out innocently enough, a view of a factory oor where sta stood

lined at machines, holding pumps and nozzles. Then the image shook, the feed

becoming blocks of colored and distorted pixels for a moment. Then everything

moved—workers, equipment, hardware, safety helmets, all of it ew in a strange

way, a sudden jolt that tossed everything toward the left side of the image. It took Demi a second to realize what happened. The people didn’t y

horizontally; no, the station tilted. And the people dropped due to gravity. Suddenly, ramen night seemed so very far away. The footage changed to a courtyard view of a park near the station’s upper

oor. Residents milled about, some walking along the gardens, some seated

around a fountain with a picnic blanket, and others playing with pets or

children. Then the same thing happened— rst, a massive shake, then everything lifted

and ew to the left side of the image. Except this time, the yellow clouds of Ark

Getru rotated nearly ninety degrees, as if someone turned the background sideways. And against those clouds, tiny dots began to trickle from background

buildings and structures, a line of specks oating helplessly out of the station,

like insects crawling out of a ooded rock face. The image switched again, this time to a ying security vehicle hurtling

toward the station. A nonhuman voice spoke, her words tinted by both concern

and curiosity as a single explosion red o near the station’s lower levels. Soon

another bomb went o , and another and another, until the station’s multiple

rings of stabilizers and magnetic repulsors—originally designed to work with

Ark Getru’s signi cant magnetic elds—all exploded, a one-by-one line that

created systematic rings of destruction around the station’s middle and bottom. The repulsor tech that de ned the very existence of the Ark Getru central

mining operation simply vaporized. And with it, the gas planet’s natural gravity

pulled at the superstructure, rst causing it to tilt on its axis before a rapid

descent into the whirling gaseous core of the planet below, leaving the security

vehicle’s camera to stare at an empty location of pu y clouds and several

blinking beacons. Seconds ago, the pilot’s voice cried out. But now her vehicle hovered, the only

noise the panicked radio chatter over her comms. “Internal view. Surface view. External view,” Cabell said as he faded back in,

his broken gaze betraying his otherwise stoic voice. “There is more recorded, of

course, but it’s not necessary for our purposes.”

One explosion wouldn’t do it. A dozen well-placed bombs wouldn’t do it. This required a massive coordinated operation, and Demi guessed possibly

seventy or eighty bombs were needed to take out the station, her mind racing

through the logistics necessary to attack one of the Cluster’s most historically

lauded resource stations. And how the hell did someone get past security?

“Here are the facts of the event.” As Cabell spoke, text appeared across the

hologram: Ark Getru population statistics, demographics, mining output. One

line in particular was highlighted—Exports impact 15% of Cluster non-FTL

propulsion. Demi gured that in a war over resources, anything impacting Cluster-

standard faster-than-light systems was probably pretty important. Though not as important as the bold words at the bottom of the hologram, a line of

characters with the most harrowing, stark text any captain could ever see:

Estimated destruction rate: 100%

Estimated casualty rate: 100%

Just like what happened to ships in the gravity well. The damage was the

same, the only di erence being that in the well, implosion crushed people

instead of tossing them into the atmosphere. Demi thought she’d left that level of destruction behind. But in a way, it felt

like it followed her home. “Prime Minister Kentworthy put out a statement on behalf of the Withdrawal

Movement neither confirming nor denying involvement. However, our intelligence

believes this attack was in response to our last attempt at negotiation—specifically,

the claim that the WM lacked the organization to produce coordinated efforts and

should release territory as such. It is likely that similar large-scale, quick-strike

attacks are in the works.” Cabell bit down on his lip, hesitating for several

seconds, and during that span, a gnawing realization hit that, unlike what Demi

witnessed in the gravity well, this was self-in icted, a byproduct of hubris and

stubbornness playing with risk. The Cluster blu ed its position, thinking it might strong-arm the WM into

concessions. The WM responded in the worst possible manner. And now an

entire station was destroyed. “We have instituted a Cluster-wide media blackout. Now”—the old man’s

gaze narrowed, a tension coming to both his eyes and the bushy white brows

above them—“the official story is that a severe and unexpected series of ecological

events ignited a storage room of collected gas, setting off a chain reaction. Select

footage will support this. And you, as fleet captains, hold a responsibility in

maintaining that narrative.”

Demi realized her ngers were tightly pressed against her knees. She relaxed

them, then a breath as well. Everything she’d known about the Cluster fractured. Impenetrable security of high-value resources. Truth, justice, honesty, and all the other supposed virtues of being in the eet. Of course politics existed, but a

cover-up of this scale?

Mistakes of this scale?

“Word of this incident has spread much faster than anticipated. While it is

known that WM attacks have always disregarded civilian safety, this escalation

exposes the Cluster’s weakening security, cumulative loss of resources, and weakened

bargaining posture. If those facts get out to the public, it will, at best, drain support

for the war. “At worst, it will give the WM a strategic advantage on all fronts—tactically,

culturally, politically. We cannot allow the public, even rank-and-file crew, to know

—”

Data stream halted displayed across the frozen image. Demi tapped the

console on her chair again, this time to reroute enhancers for signal stability. The

transmission stalled on Cabell’s mouth in mid-sentence. Which was kind of

good, because as she waited for the system to recover, Demi really needed a

moment to process the way that her government and its opposition both treated

civilians as war fodder. In the well, every single one of her decisions clawed back a little more

stability, a little more life out of the impossible. Here, everything seemed to

spiral in the opposite way. Despite the violence, despite the death, Demi froze at a sudden thought:

horrifying as it was, destructive as it was, maybe it all existed outside of the

Horizon. Since they’d returned to Cluster space—raw, traumatized, lost—she’d

pushed Command to keep the Horizon out of the war. The ship, the crew, they

were all anomalies that just popped up in the middle of an ongoing con ict, one

that threatened to swallow each of them whole. With everything Cabell just revealed, that might have been the right decision

all along. Her decade-old ship carrying a patchwork crew and their shattered

emotions couldn’t shift the war in any way, not when the Cluster goaded the

WM into more deadly attacks. All Demi could do was keep everything at bay

long enough to…

Long enough for something better to happen. What that was, she wasn’t sure. But she owed it to her crew to nd out. It was the only thing she could control. She had to stick to it. Demi took a breath, then told herself the next time she listened to classi ed

war material, make sure her dog was around to help steady her racing pulse. “—stage of the war,” Cabell continued, though the visuals remained paused. “As fleet captains, there is no doubt these discussions will reach at least some of your

crew. Your orders are to—”

Suddenly, the entire holo disappeared, leaving only the front window and the

vastness of space. On Demi’s console, the comm array schematic lit up with all

types of unhappy ashing—plus a new message: Secondary support maximized. Attempt internal repair?

Demi hit an icon to start the Horizon’s self-repair processes and watched as

an estimated completion time uctuated between ten minutes and three hours. That was a good prompt for Demi to stand up from the captain’s chair. “Computer, reroute comm array status to the mess hall, primary display.”

Her crew expected her. If she didn’t show up, they’d suspect something. It

was ramen night, after all. Demi gave herself a few breaths to absorb the lies, the death, the chaos sent in

a single message. Then she tamped it down. She had to. For one hour, because

reality would come soon enough. Word of Ark Getru would surely trickle in

from outside colleagues, from news broadcasts, from family and friends. And

then Command’s orders to lie would kick in. For that hour, she wanted to give everyone on board freedom from

everything that was soon to come. Including herself. CHAPTER 2

DEMI

Not every GCF o cer was allowed to have a dog on a starship. But when Demi

stumbled upon an illegal greyhound racetrack operating near the Mars orbital

repair dock, she watched as rescue teams took in scared animals unsure of their

surroundings and apprehensive of a new life. Demi understood that. And as a relief worker struggled to corral six dogs at

once, one broke free and sprinted directly at her. Demi opened her arms and held the trembling greyhound until the dog

calmed down. Then she immediately requested an animal companion exception

for her starship. Now Indy walked patiently by Demi’s side as they entered the Horizon’s

mess hall on the second deck. Prior to escaping the collapsing gravity well, crew

dinners had lled the space. A mix of original Horizon crew had welcomed

refugees from imploded community ships along with walking mech suits

housing the strange planes of pink light that made up Lumersian bodies—if you

could even call those bodies. Bodies usually meant something tangible,

something you could feel or hug. Light wasn’t exactly a body. Even with Chuck, his brilliant mind resided in

the sentient square of photonic energy, but Demi sure missed holding that mech

suit’s robotic hand. Those days were loud, raucous, and busy, and the mess hall’s air was often

thick from so many beings from so many universes, everyone trying to make it to

the next day, the next minute. One night would have a culturally themed meal, the next would host a movie night from a parallel universe, and other times the

mess hall and the hangar bay on deck three would be turned into a massive

round of hide-and-seek. If the bridge was the Horizon’s brain, then the mess hall

was its heart, the place where culture, species, tastes, and emotions owed

together, giving the Horizon’s crew and its multiversal visitors a place to exist

outside the empty glowing void around them. All of that came courtesy of one man, a former rock star who arrived via

another universe’s cruise ship. Tanav Lexin’s knack for understanding people

may have also explained why he now sat surrounded by the crew’s wide grins and

bright eyes. Even with a smaller crew, the place still came alive—a little quieter and

certainly less messy than before, but in some ways even more vibrant. Standing

at the back of the mess hall, Demi caught the black, compound eyes of Neera,

rows upon rows of visual receptors lined together on each eyeball to give him a

unique sense of vision—highly e ective for working on intricate ship systems. Though maybe more importantly, the tall Dywan engineer with an inhuman

skull was Indy’s second-favorite person on the ship. Neera mixed back into the

crowd, either to avoid the dog or focus on the test data in his hand, or both. Demi let him be, instead turning to the unfolding action. Tanav didn’t notice her come in, instead focusing on the bowl in front of

him. Lieutenant Aurora Sterling, one of the Horizon’s system engineers, o ered

him… something. Demi squinted to be sure, but it looked like the green-haired lieutenant

carried several glowing peppers by their thin stems. “All right,” Aurora said, “the challenge is three of these. So hot they can

disrupt the ship’s power lines.” The proclamation sparked a mix of whoops and

applause. “Don’t ask me how I know.”

Oddly, Tanav looked at Lynn during all of this. Not at Aurora, who

described how her family farm grew the spiciest peppers in the Milia sector; not

at the glowing white peppers themselves; nor at the ship’s captain, who’d just

entered the room. And it wasn’t just a glance. Lynn stood directly in front of Tanav with a

nger on her chin and giant smirk, leading to a locking of eyes—the lingering type that sent messages. In this case, the message might have been, What have I

gotten myself into?

“All right, all right,” Tanav said, putting one hand up. He took a deep breath

and raised a single nger. “First one.”

Aurora plucked a pepper o the stem and handed it to him. He held it

between his ngers, staring at it with an intensity that even pulled Demi’s

thoughts away from Ark Getru and into the immediate drama. How did Tanav

get roped into this?

In one motion, he popped the pepper into his mouth and chewed. A ush

came to his cheeks, darkening his already brown skin into a richer hue, and he

squinted, deep lines forming in all sorts of angles across his eyes. He chewed in

large, quick gestures, and though his eyes stayed shut, he held up two ngers and

nodded his head. “Second one!” Aurora yelled, prompting more cheers, and even Indy got in

several deep barks. Tanav took this one down, speeding up his chews. Lynn

waved a glass of water at him, though with his eyes closed, he missed it. The status display on the wall showed that the internal diagnostic and power

rerouting were still processing. Demi reminded herself that allowing one hour

for this was as much for her as it was everyone else. And she couldn’t review

Cabell’s message while the hardware rerouted. So, hot peppers it was. It had to be. She needed it to be that and nothing else

right now. “Now,” Aurora said, “my family stops at two peppers. Does our Cultural

Counselor dare for more?

He always talks about nding opportunities. I guess

that means he’s done that here. Last pepper—but, maybe we give him a choice

with it. Fair?” By now, tears streamed out of Tanav’s eyes and sweat matted his

thick black hair. “He’s been such a good sport, how about for this last pepper, he

can choose to eat it whole or break it apart and put it in his ramen.” Murmurs

swept through the room, and Tanav ran a cloth napkin over his face, the top of

his head, the back of his neck before giving a thumbs-up. Aurora gave him the

nal pepper. “You do the honors.”

Tanav held it steady over this bowl and inhaled—sni ed, really—before

cracking the pepper and dumping its seeds into his noodles. He dropped the remainder in and swirled his chopsticks to stir the dish. Just as he took a bite, he

said in a low voice, “Gravity-easy.”

Demi doubted the scienti c accuracy of “gravity-easy,” given that gravity

wasn’t exactly easy; the well proved that every day. But who was she to question

the idioms of someone’s home?

One time, she’d told Chuck she had a bone to

pick with a neighboring ship, and when Chuck asked for its literal meaning, she

had no answer. Tanav came with his own set of references, just like he came with his own

quantum vibrational frequency. For the latter, his comm integrated a signal

booster so the ship’s sensors could better identify him. But no piece of tech

constantly translated his cultural sayings. They all just had to learn. “Four bites, to be fair,” Aurora said, and Tanav obliged, taking in the noodles

while sweat rolled down his cheeks. The crowd counted each one, Tanav taking

one very deep, messy breath before the nal bite caused the crew to cheer. Not bad for eighteen people and a rescue dog. Lynn waved the glass of water again in front of Tanav, who drank the whole

thing in several gulps. She took the empty glass and dashed o while Tanav

slumped away from the crowd to the sink behind the main counter. As he

splashed water on his face, Demi decided to make her presence known. “We make it out of the gravity well and you decide to immolate yourself with

Aurora’s family peppers?

There are easier ways to do the whole ‘bringing the

crew together’ thing.” Despite possibly melting his mouth, throat, and intestinal

lining, Tanav mustered a laugh. It came with coughs, and he ran the damp

napkin over his face again. “Ah,” he said, the top part of his face still covered with the napkin, “well, I

wanted to help Aurora out.” It dropped down to reveal a clarity in his eyes

despite the redness and tears. “You didn’t hear this from me, but she’s thinking

of leaving the ship.”

Demi paused at the statement but quickly sti ed any further reaction to it. She knew not to take these types of things personally, even though they always

stung at rst. When they arrived in Galactic Cluster space as a starship packed

with refugees, many people asked for immediate transfers. Some wanted to get the hell away from their oating space prison. Some felt the need to support the

Cluster in its surprise civil war with the Withdrawal Movement. Some quit the eet altogether, having been through enough. For those who stayed, though, Demi’s mission was to give them stability in an

uncertain galaxy—di cult already with the war relentlessly encroaching upon

everything. The war had been ongoing for two years when they’d landed, and she

quickly discovered it to be as meaningless as it was vicious, and the last hour

cemented that belief even more. That take was probably the one thing she’d

agree on with her parents—if she ever talked to them again. Stability would probably be even more di cult after Ark Getru. Demi rubbed her chin at the thought. “You all right?”

Tanav was the only current crew member to dare ask her that question. Grant

Singh, her former rst o cer, would ask during private conversations. But since

his death, only Tanav went there, and while he always seemed to denigrate his

lack of military everything, Demi saw it as a kind of license to go where others

would avoid. Cultural Counselor, after all, was a made-up title. She rarely replied with full honesty. But she appreciated that he tried. And

that he seemed to know. “She wants a transfer?” Demi asked, a conscious

de ection back to Aurora. “I can contact—”

“No.” Tanav shook his head, though a quick grimace showed that maybe his

stomach was feeling all the peppers. “The Milia sector joined the Withdrawal

Movement. The Cluster has cut o trade with her farm. She wants to go home

to help her parents.”

“I can get her over there…” Demi started. And even though Tanav often

talked about how war in his universe was more about corporate takeovers than

guns and bombs, he understood enough to send a knowing eyebrow at her. Demi couldn’t cross o cial lines like that. “It’s weighing on her.” Tanav stirred his noodles around, though he hesitated

to take another bite. “These walls”—he gestured around them—“can’t always

keep the war out, no matter what you say. People have family and friends out

there. So tonight, she arrived with her family’s peppers, and I wanted to distract

her for a few hours. Clear her mind.” Tanav laughed, then rubbed the sweat out of his eyes. “It was—” A rapid blink interrupted him as his hands patted around,

searching for the napkin. “My eyes. I shouldn’t have touched my eyes.”

Demi grabbed napkins from the counter, and right when he took them, Lynn

showed up with a tray of chocolate chip cookies and milk. “Sorry,” she said, “had to search for milk. Oh, hi, Demi. Did you catch the

show?”

“More like the aftermath.” Tanav groaned as he wiped his face. “Milk helps with the heat,” Lynn said. “And cookies to go with them, of

course. He baked these.” Demi couldn’t stop the surprised look on her face. “I

know, right?

Though a little undercooked. He forgot to test them, he’s gotta

slow down”—she thumbed at Tanav—“and don’t rush the bake. Sometimes it’s

better if you don’t jump to the next step. It needs ve more minutes.”

There it was again: that look. These two weren’t just irting. They were a

couple. Demi didn’t want to show her epiphany. Or the grin on her face. That part

needed her hand as a cover, and she considered what she knew about them, how

Tanav struggled being marooned in this universe apart from Thaddea, his ex-

ancée and his ex-bandmate. And Lynn, despite her friendly exterior, always

carried a tension in her. Maybe they both had to be here, in Cluster space, before

they could relax and let someone else in. “Right. Like the Supermercado song ‘Five More Minutes.’ ” His voice carried

a playful tone, like he said that just to annoy her. And she responded in kind. “I swear those songs aren’t real. I give you three hundred years of music, and

you’re just making up shit to mess with me.” Lynn turned to Demi, her long

dark curls falling over her GC Fleet uniform. “As ship’s captain, did you ever

wonder if maybe he’s not really a rock star?

Like, he’s just a waiter who found a

situation?

’Cause we’ve known each other for how many years, and I’ve still

never heard you sing?”

“You sing rst, then I’ll sing.” Their debate highlighted the contrast between

them: the musician versus the music fan; Lynn’s decade of eet dedication versus

Tanav’s fell-into-this-role duty; Lynn’s polished, sharp diction versus Tanav’s

sometimes unexplainable pronunciation from another universe. “Di erent life. Di erent universe. Maybe my calling is baking here.”

But that wasn’t true. Demi knew what Tanav’s calling was, just by the very

fact that everyone in the room watched him eat three of Aurora’s super-peppers. “Whichever life, don’t melt your intestine before you make it back home.”

Normally such a quip would get a laugh in return from both of them. This

time, they just turned to each other, an awkward pause saved by the ship’s status

chime ringing through the mess hall. A ashing red X over the comm schematic said it all. No internal rerouting

would get this thing xed. Demi fought o a sigh, mind already thinking about

the next makeshift x for this crew, and as if the ship’s computer wanted to make

sure she didn’t miss the point, a new message arrived:

Internal repairs unsuccessful. Hardware replacement necessary. Purging cached

transmission. She raised a hand to excuse herself without taking a single bite, then she heard

a familiar voice:

GC Minister of Defense Cabell. She turned to see the same classi ed message from before broadcasting out

over the mess hall. Somehow, the combination of hardware damage, software

limitations, and dumb luck broadcast a very classi ed, very not-good war

message to the crew. As footage of Ark Getru came to life, conversations fell away, voices

exchanged for gasps and whispered chatter. The video paused and stuttered,

right when Cabell said, “We cannot allow the public, even rank-and-file crew, to

know—”

Then the transmission hung, just like before. And even though Cabell’s

words eventually continued, the minister couldn’t be heard over the shouting of

crew members—shouting at her, shouting at the screen, shouting at each other. Demi wanted a peaceful hour for everyone before the impact of Ark Getru

wormed its way into the ship. According to the clock, she only got twelve

minutes. And from the sudden erce anger around the room, no matter how

bad she originally anticipated, things were going to get much, much worse. CHAPTER 3

TANAV

Tanav had never seen anything like Ark Getru before. His universe was far from

perfect, with its economic caste systems and corporate control over large regions

of space. Accidents certainly happened, as did tragedies. But the thing about

corporate control was that military forces usually focused on local skirmishes

and border enforcement; everything else negotiated through boardrooms as

populations and communities stayed in their respective roles. So intentional destruction on that level was beyond understanding, those

images rooted deep in his mind. And the GCF o cial who talked so clinically

about the whole thing…

As with the war itself, the whole thing felt like a whirlpool sucking in

innocent bystanders. He couldn’t do anything about it; he didn’t even know

why Ark Getru itself was so important. He just knew that something horrible

happened and the reason behind it was top secret. Others in the crew had

stronger opinions—he overheard Casey Tarell in particular say something about

calling her grandfather to “tell the old admiral that this is bullshit.”

Demi shouted to bring order to the mess hall. “Everyone settle down!

I don’t

like this any more than you do. But this is a classi ed message, and it only slipped

through because of a damaged comm array. If you need someone to yell at later,

you know where to nd me. But for now, we need to x our home. We can’t

ignore that. I need everyone’s help.”

That got people going, even if they grumbled about it. Discussions about

who would do what and where started with an underlying tension. Words came out clipped, responses came with hesitation, and extra glances were traded in all

directions. No one was happy, yet everyone needed to get involved, which

happened more often than not on the Horizon. Tanav thought of a phrase from

his universe that his parents particularly liked: “Pulling the debtors and creditors

into the ledger.”

In this case, that meant people got tasked with things they weren’t necessarily

suited for. “Outer hull array repair” meant a space walk with two crew members,

each carrying and installing equipment—plus the necessary crew to monitor

systems. Commander Neera, the Horizon’s chief engineer, was the logical choice for

the space walk. The would-be rst o cer—would-be, as in he would be if he’d

stop turning down the promotion—agreed to the request and immediately left

the mess hall to prepare. For the second spacewalker, Lynn volunteered. Which surprised Tanav, given

the zero gravity environment and her sensitive stomach. “I worked with the

transmission array the most. I’ve studied the hardware—like fteen years ago,

but it’s burned in my memory. I just need Neera to guide me on the repair part.”

Though she didn’t look at Tanav, the next line felt like a direct response to the

expression on his face. “I’m the best person for the job, despite being prone to

motion sickness,” she said, which cascaded into quiet laughs around the room. “Macek will be in engineering to power cycle the circuit at the array,” Demi

said. “Aurora, check the stability of the decryptor. It’s got outdated transmission

protocols, so we need to integrate that cleanly.” She rattled o other orders,

Tanav missing the technical details, though his ears perked up when she called

his name. “Tanav, how would you like a temporary promotion to GCF

communications o cer?”

Lynn ashed a grin his way, and for that brief instance, it was like they hadn’t

seen the horrors of Ark Getru. “Whatever you need,” he said, and with that, Demi sent everyone on their

way. He followed her to the bridge, a place he hardly visited due to his lack of

training. Reading subtext, thinking ahead, remembering what people liked or

wanted, he excelled at the things that weren’t part of ship operations. And while no one else ever mentioned it, his inability to grasp those things always stuck out

in his own mind. Forty- ve minutes later, he sat at Lynn’s station, a clear view of the live

holographic feed projected out from the front data table: the blanket of space,

then the shape of a human silently coming in from the right side. To his left,

Demi sat in the captain’s chair, a tablet in each hand. They watched Lynn

stumble forward, magnetic boots clamping onto the outer hull by the main

transmission array. She moved steadily, step-by-step, as her legs swung slowly in

the very strange environment of outer space. “I am so nauseous,” Lynn said over the comm system. “Why did I volunteer

for this?

Don’t worry, everyone, I know we’ve got limited laundry resources right

now. Trying my best not to throw up.” Her heavy, regular breath broadcast,

soon followed by barely audible words in melody. “ ‘The execution of all things,’ ”

she sang quietly. “ ‘The execution of all things.’ ”

Whisper-singing her favorite songs, rambling, and cracking jokes—all of

Lynn’s coping mechanisms activated at once, pushed by nausea, the space walk,

possibly even Ark Getru. He’d caught her reaction to the broadcast, a wide-eyed

look that crossed horror and anger and disbelief, yet she’d managed to stu it all

down and break into duty. Tanav could have made a crack to keep the mood light, about how he still

really never got to hear Lynn sing, and space walk whispering didn’t count. Except saying something probably would have only distracted her, and the outer

hull wasn’t a place for that. Instead, he focused on the various panels monitoring

the status of intra and external ship communications. “Thirty steps farther is all we will need to traverse.” Neera’s voice came rst,

then his familiar silhouette. He moved with more con dence than Lynn, thanks

to his previous experience on the outer hull repair. They’d adapted the pu y

white space suit to Neera’s needs: taller, slight diamond-shaped skull with a

ridged forehead coming to a peak, and two opposable thumbs on each side of his

large hands. Kind of like the way Neera adapted his speech to the basic English

used by the mostly human crew of the Horizon—though the syntax of Neera’s

native species still carried through, giving his sentences an odd format. Tanav once told Neera that Dywen phrasing reminded him of a term he

learned in his upper-school years: idling format. Demi said that in this universe,

they called it “passive voice,” and her dad—an Earth-bound high school teacher

—would mark it on her childhood writing. Which, Tanav supposed, made “communicating while walking in space and

carrying a lot of equipment” the ultimate exam, given that brevity would have

worked better for all involved. “This is the point where we will split up,” Neera said. “Upon reaching the

secondary range booster, the security decryptor must be set and plugged into the

base module. The same step will be done at the primary range booster by me.”

“That’s when you’ll need me to activate the decoder?” Tanav asked as he

watched the ashing red text that loudly proclaimed ERROR over the monitor

for encrypted priority communications. Another noti cation ashed on the screen, and while this one provided more

details, it still didn’t make sense to Tanav. So many statuses, messages, displays,

things to keep track of, the whole thing started to push his thoughts into a

growing panic. Every light, color, and character ooded his senses, an overwhelm

that drilled down to the fact that he didn’t really know what he was doing there. He forced a calm wave to Demi, who read it aloud: “ ‘Data within embedded

layer stuck in cache.’ ”

She hu ed softly, giving away more of her frustration than she’d usually let

on. “No idea what that means. I’ll borrow Lynn from you for a minute later to

see if she knows.”

Borrow Lynn. Demi normally wouldn’t reference a personal relationship among the crew. What could cause her to slip like that?

Maybe they all felt overwhelmed. And if so, did he contribute to that in

Demi?

Everyone else shifted into duty mode with ease, even with the shadow of the

Ark Getru disaster. But he’d just put on his best front, and though Neera said

his task would be easy, the relentless displays at the station made Tanav feel like a

child among adults. He sat taller in his chair, like good posture would fool the

rest of the crew. Lynn didn’t seem to notice Demi’s slip—or she didn’t care, given the

potential space sickness at play. “A rmative,” Neera said. On the holographic screen, the two silhouettes

ambled toward respective transmitter modules on the hull, each carrying a

booster pole of three feet in height. The engineering station on the other side

chimed, and Tanav craned his neck to see a bunch of blue lights ashing. Blue was usually good. Red was usually bad. That didn’t change across universes. “Clickity-click,” Lynn said. “My pole’s plugged in. Demi, Neera is just about

there. I’ll give you the play-by-play. I’d sing more but I don’t want anyone to hear

me o -key. About ten feet now.” On-screen, Neera moved out of camera range. “Five feet. You know, I’ve never watched people spacewalk before, but this

de nitely makes them look kind of ridiculous. Like a gingerbread man bouncing

o a starship hull.” Her rambling meant that she really must have been terri ed

now. “Oh, my stomach is going again.”

“My module is now active,” Neera said. “Tanav, you should be activating the

reset process for the encryption decoder and priority transmitter now. Gratitude

is owed to Lynn for volunteering to assist with this step.”

“Gratitude doesn’t settle the nausea.”

Despite the tension of the past hour, Lynn’s joke received low chuckles across

the bridge. At the helm, Hikaru’s head bobbed with a snicker, and at the front

data table, Lindsay and Karl both wore grins under the projected hologram feed. Somehow, Demi had turned around a worst-case scenario in the mess hall into

this—a frayed and messy family that edged on broken but found its way back. Yet one glance at Demi showed that she still carried it all with her: furrowed

brow, arms crossed, and jaw clenched with an intensity that went beyond a

standard repair situation, even one involving the outer hull. With that, Tanav

once again pictured the images from Ark Getru. Maybe Demi did too. Maybe she pictured worse. They all knew Demi

shielded them from the war, allowing the Horizon crew to work on getting the

photonic engine back online. Now Tanav had to reconsider everything he’d seen

from her in the past six months. Other things must have bubbled beneath the

surface, and how much of that pressurized her from within?

And what would happen to them if that pressure nally broke?

“Focus, people,” Demi said. “Tanav, start the reset.”

Tanav obliged, and despite his misgivings, Neera was right: his task was

actually very simple. He tapped two di erent buttons on the comm display. “Resetting the system.” His ngers held against the screen until the status

indicators appeared. Was that all it took?

It sure looked that way. “It’s working,”

he said, as much to reassure himself as letting the others know. A quick glance

caught a shift in Demi: her shoulders finally relaxed, and she settled back into

her chair, probably a response to something actually going right today. The bar

on his screen lled up, and a new message appeared:

TELEMETRY CONNECTED. DATA TRANSMISSION IN PROGRESS

“We’ve got messages coming in,” he said. “I’m just seeing them with an ID

and no actual message. Are you sure it’s xed?”

“It’s ’cause this is the priority array for classi ed information,” Lynn said, her

voice in an exaggerated know-it-all tone. “Guess I’m getting my job back. Sorry,

that was mean, wasn’t it?

I wasn’t trying to—”

“We’re good,” Tanav said, and he could practically see her smile form in

response. Demi’s personal tablet pinged, likely receiving detailed versions of the

messages he just saw. Demi’s sharp inhale seemed to con rm that. And that worried Tanav on

multiple levels. Earlier, in the mess hall, he’d asked Demi if she was all right. She clearly was

not, except this wasn’t the time or place to bring it up. Tanav forced himself to

focus on Lynn’s station, though he knew better than to touch any of her

settings. The comm display chimed, a new message loaded with technical

language, and he projected a tone like he understood it. “That other error is

back. Looks like a new process is starting. It says ‘archiving data within

embedded layer.’ ”

“Wait, what?” Lynn asked. “ ‘Archiving data within embedded layer.’ ” More text displayed, a dense wall

that he couldn’t decipher. “It says something about ‘backup cache,’ but I can’t make out the blue from the green.” With Lynn’s linguistics background, he’d

expected something snide whenever phrases from his old life snuck through. Yet

Lynn’s voice came over mu ed, more like a collection of rapid curse words than

anything else. “Cabell’s message hung up on data caching,” Demi said. “Something’s still

stuck in there.”

“Repaired equipment appears to be functioning at nominal levels,” Neera

said. “The vacuum of space is something I am ready to leave, as it is a ecting my

digestive system.”

At least Neera told a joke. Or at least tried to. Lynn had mentioned that she’d

really tried helping him to understand the timing of humor. Though given the

backdrop of everything right now, maybe Neera still didn’t grasp it. A sudden sound pierced the comms, and after a second, the noise registered:

a human scream. But there was only one human out on the hull…

Lynn. Tanav stood up, his chair still swiveling as he turned to the holographic

projection. With the secondary transmission module still out of view, only spiraling

debris pushed silently across the screen, little trickles of energy charges wrapping

around the larger pieces. And just behind all of that, a limp oating gure came into view: rst the

head, then the shoulders, then the bent legs, all static as it drifted. They didn’t

need the computer to run an identity scan. It was already clear:

Lynn oated into the empty expanse of space. CHAPTER 4

NEERA

In some ways, Dywen physiology was similar to human physiology. Bipedal, two

arms, two legs, basic bilateral symmetry. As Dywens and their pack-based,

hierarchical society began exploring the galaxy in Neera’s universe, their

scientists theorized that this commonality across encountered species came from

the fact that it was a nearly ideal model for living on solid land. The details, though, di ered. For Dywens, their compound eyes o ered a wider eld of view yet worse low-

light vision. Despite that, his species remained extremely sensitive to sudden

ashes of light and high-contrast environments. Which meant that tracking

Lynn’s location was a challenge. The outer hull’s spotlights illuminated the

locations that required intervention and installation. But their bright lamps

against the vast blackness of space created a contrast stark enough that Neera

squinted to nd Lynn. Then the blast—a ash of energy rather than an eruption of burning gas. Neera’s vision blurred in response for several seconds. It took a conscious e ort

to grasp that pieces of equipment had fractured into hundreds of tiny bits, all

twirling away into space. Followed by Lynn’s limp body, the magnetic boots

somehow losing their grip and causing her to drift upward. Neera quelled his

growing panic and remembered they had emergency space walk protocols in

place. He could rely on those. He moved immediately, one magnetic step at a time. “What’s going on?” Demi called out. “Lynn?

Lynn, are you all right?”

“An accident has occurred,” Neera said, and though his sentences got longer,

the clip of his voice sped up and his ngers started to dget. “Unconscious

appears to be Lynn’s current state due to an explosion of some sort.” His eyes

focused, the details gradually coming in. “A tether was applied to her belt right

before this happened.” Her body drifted until it hit some twenty feet over the

hull, the slack of the tether tightening, then holding her still. “Lieutenant?”

Neera called out over the comm. “We need support crew over there. Get the rescue grapple,” Demi ordered the

monitoring crew members. “Neera, can you keep her safe until we get out

there?”

Could he?

Previous space walks were solo—he never worried about anyone

else. Here, all the risks stood out: oxygen in the suit, internal injury, damage to

the suit, damage to the tether…

Neera forced himself to stop and attach a scope from his equipment belt to

his helmet’s face shield. The projected image zoomed in, and Lynn came into

focus. He scanned the tether’s clamp on either end, one locked onto her belt and

the other anchored at the transmitter’s base module. Both clamps looked steady. But halfway up the tether lay a di erent problem—a clear fraying of the

cable, likely impact damage from exploding debris. Neera tapped the side of the

scope, and numbers and lines highlighted across his view, all to analyze the

integrity of the cable. Sixty-four-percent cut. With exposed electrical ow eating away at it,

combined with the pressure created by Lynn’s upward oat, that number was

gradually ticking toward one hundred. And numbers never lied. “An unexpected issue has presented itself in Lynn’s tether.”

“Can you x it?”

“Further damage may occur with attempted manipulation.” Neera sped up

his march toward her. “Lynn?” Demi called out over the open channel. “Lynn?

Wake up!

Rescue

team, give me an ETA.” Indistinct muted chatter came over the comm, though

Demi’s response gave away their status. “Not good enough. Get there faster.”

Neera analyzed the problem the same way he would approach xing a broken

power conduit: initial condition, goals and objectives, and possible bridges

between all of that. The zero gravity environment could be solved by a pull. But

a delicate one, to avoid even more decaying of the cable, along with some

guidance on Lynn’s side of the tether. Which required her to be conscious. The scanner showed the bers of the cable gradually deconstructing. A

decision was needed—the rescue team wouldn’t arrive in time. Neera took one more look at Lynn’s limp body and considered how the

strength of their friendship might assist this task. As an original Horizon crew

member, Lynn had been Neera’s rst alien contact when his Regent Empire

freighter was pulled from his universe into the gravity well. He’d expected

con ict in that new space, but Lynn had initiated communications and used the

Horizon’s translation matrix to establish commonalities between their

languages. Eventually, she’d been the rst to welcome him aboard the Horizon. Lynn always claimed she was just doing her job, but in that action, she made him

feel a little less alone in a very strange place. Their friendship started there and only grew stronger. This depth allowed

another way of connecting, even if it meant putting himself in danger. Neera closed his eyes, a wave of his emotions reaching out, like a radar

sending a ping signal. Her presence came through to him—faint, but there. Usually, Dywen empathic connections happened between two conscious

receivers, the comfort of each other’s existence allowing for a deeper bond to

form, like neurons tying into each other. With Lynn unconscious, Neera hoped

that their bond was strong enough for her to accept him, like how his species

considered others in their pack. If not, his own sense of self would shatter. Temporary, only for several

minutes, but problematic given that they were both on the outside of a starship. Lynn seemed to recognize this strange semiconscious presence, and bers of

connection formed—not the same as the natural connection to other Dywens,

but enough to achieve a temporary shared empathic experience. Loyalty to

Demi, friendship to Neera and crew members like Aurora, grief for Grant

Singh…

And for Tanav, Neera read a deeper bond, feelings very foreign to what

Dywen families knew. Through this came a strange hiccup of discomfort; as its wave struck Neera,

he sensed that whatever caused it had little to do with the space walk and in fact

seeded far deeper, perhaps being with Lynn for months. That would be a conversation for another time—if Lynn even wanted to

discuss it. Perhaps she found the return to Cluster space disquieting as well. A

place so different from the stories Lynn had told him. Their emotions wove into each other, Neera sending an intentional calm to

establish himself, an empathic way of holding someone’s hand. Then he

projected out something sudden and new, a transmission wave of urgency

directly to Lynn’s very core. His eyes ew open. And he knew—he knew—hers did as well. “Neera?” Lynn suddenly said. “What am I—I feel weird.”

“Indeed you do. I have connected to your senses using a process known to

Dywens as empathic imprinting.” Lynn groaned at this, and Neera wasn’t sure if

that meant she remembered the details he’d explained about his native society

years ago. “It is a connection often created by Dywen families and their pack. The aftere ects of it can be di cult for non-Dywens.”

“Empathic… what?”

That meant she did not remember. “Explanations will come in due time. For now, your alertness is the most

important part of this plan.” Neera moved into position at the base of the tether

clamp. “Damage has put your tether at risk. I will pull you toward the ship, but

you must orient yourself in order to take my hand. The integrity of the tether is

almost gone. We must do this now.”

“Now?” She hu ed out a short laugh. “Told you, you’d make a good

captain.”

Captain. Before becoming a captain, GCF o cers needed to be a rst o cer. Demi had o ered Neera the position months ago. He’d declined. He xed things. He didn’t give orders. He didn’t know how to. This, however, was a x. “Now,” Neera said, and he pulled. Not too hard—

snapping the nal threads of the cable might create a whiplash e ect that sent

Lynn spiraling away. And not too light, as he needed her to have enough pull to

oat toward him despite the dampening e ect of the Horizon’s shield bubble. Lynn inched closer, her arm outstretched toward the safety of Neera’s hand. They connected, and Neera gripped her hand tightly, though Lynn only o ered

a weak return. He pulled her in, twisting her body until he could reset her

magnetic boots. They came to life with blinking green lights, and Neera dragged

her legs toward the hull until they locked on. Now they waited. Except Lynn slumped in an odd way. Neera twisted to see her eyes had fallen

half-shut, beyond empathic calm. Neera pulled out his scanner and soon

understood why:

A cut in the space suit. “Almost there,” Demi said over the comm. “They’re preparing the grapple

drone.”

A small cut, no bigger than a few centimeters, but enough to start draining

air faster than it pumped in. Lynn needed to stay awake. Neera closed his eyes,

transmitting his own internal urgency at the situation like a bolt of energy to

her. Her eyes snapped open again, though they quickly fell. “The most important thing is for you to remain conscious right now,” Neera

said. “Help has almost arrived, but oxygen is leaking from a puncture in your

space suit. Talking must be your priority to stay awake.”

“Talking?” Lynn said slowly. “About what?”

Neera didn’t have a good—or quick—answer to that question. So many

choices oated through his mind, but with time running out, he forced an

arbitrary choice. “Tell me about the song you were singing.”

“Oh,” she said with a small laugh. Her eyes half closed, and even though she

seemed to force them open, they gradually sank again. “Rilo Kiley. A band from

Earth’s peak rock music era.” She took in a slow, even breath. “Jenny Lewis was

their singer. A poet for generations.”

“Drone’s ring up,” Demi said. “Hang in there.”

“Neera. Your turn. You tell me something. Tell me…” Lynn said, a smile

forming even as she slowed down. Some distance away, a hatch slid open, the

light from inside cut through by the silhouette of a circular drone. “…about the

photonic engine. Something I don’t know. You love talking about that.” Her

question came with a curiosity somehow echoing the deep anxiety from earlier. But whatever kept her mind awake would work. He thought back to the last conversation he had with his friend Colin Sadler,

a GCF engineer who studied the photonic engine as Neera did, despite his war-

support tasks. That would work here. “A system reset exists for the pressure

release cycle,” Neera started. With one hand still holding on to Lynn, he raised

his other arm to hail the drone. “The cycle is necessary from the collected heats

of the engine’s di erent modules. Because they were not designed to work

together, a partial reset is not possible. A cycle initiation causes a reset delay of

approximately thirty-two…” The drone arrived, a circular machine with small

propulsion jets at di erent angles and several robotic arms. In this case, each

carried rescue cables tied to an anchor within the ship. “Thirty-two to forty

hours. Accidental cycle initiation is to be avoided,” he said as he undid Lynn’s

damaged tether and attached the rescue line, “to prevent signi cant delays in

engine experiments.” As he took the secondary line to his own belt, the drone’s

arm grabbed Lynn and red o a boost, expediting her back to safety. While her body tugged away, her voice came through the comms—weak,

slow, but still undeniably herself. “That all sounds really boring,” she said

through hu s. “Thanks for helping me. Can you show it to me?”

Lynn drifted away, tugged forward by the drone toward the open hatch,

where an emergency crew awaited. “You are welcome to a complete

demonstration once you are safe and recovered.”

CHAPTER 5

DEMI

Twenty-four hours after Lynn’s semi-disastrous space walk, Demi called an

emergency meeting in the Horizon’s observation lounge. The full orders from

Minister Cabell had been curt and simple: captains were to show a compilation

of selected footage from the incident, cite it as an environmental accident, and

say that any crew members that lost family in the “accident” would be granted

emergency bereavement leave upon request. Well, that wouldn’t work. The damage was done, so she presented the crew

with a choice:

“None of us can unsee that message. It’s horri c. I’m sure it recalls bad

memories of being in the gravity well. However, Command wants everyone to

believe it’s an accident. I’m sure there is tactical thinking behind that decision, so

I’m asking you to respect that.” Classi ed intel was classi ed for a reason, except

classi ed munitions de ciencies were a bit di erent from covering up the truth

behind a terrorist attack. This marked the rst time Command asked for an

active, clear lie. Ten years ago, she’d see this as an order. After everything, it wasn’t that simple. A long pause stretched through the group, and while they looked at one

another, none of them looked at Demi. “What the fuck?” Casey asked. “Are you listening to yourself?” Her crossed

arms, matched by a scowl across her face. “What is this statesman bullshit?

People are dying!”

Demi knew exactly what Casey was talking about. Her words had been her

own, but they acted as a lter for Command’s message. And everyone saw

through that. “This is a little more complicated than that.”

“No it’s not. This is a cover-up, plain and simple.” Nods circled among the

crew, and Demi could feel immediately that she was losing them. “We know you. You don’t talk like this. You didn’t talk like this when we were in the well. This is

Command putting words in your mouth. This is Command telling you to lie. A

‘tactical’ lie is still a lie.”

Grumbles turned into agreement turned into shouting. A barrage of words

ew at Demi, and as she glanced at these faces she knew so well, a deep shame

welled within her gut. Aurora yelled to be heard, and that gradually brought a quiet, but not a calm. “If this hadn’t leaked, would you even talk with us about it?

Or would you just

tell their lie?”

On the surface, Demi remained controlled. Not even an extra exhale or scowl. But inside, anger gathered momentum. It started small, a simple irritation at the

way dumb luck and chain of command collided to create this mess. But it rolled

into a pointed, desperate fury aimed at Command for putting her in this

position. They wanted her to act like any other captain of any other crew, like

none of what her crew did mattered, and everyone on the Horizon could just

jump at orders. For six months, she’d stood in front of her crew, taking the jabs

and shrapnel from within GCF, even playing the role of the dutiful captain to

keep things as status quo as possible. “I don’t know,” Demi said after several seconds. More shouting rained down

on her, though Aurora yelled to let Demi be heard. “You wanted honesty, I am

being honest. I don’t know. I didn’t have time to think things through before it

happened.”

A clamor of voices rose quickly, words meshing into a wall of sound without

any distinct purpose. Casey stepped forward with a hand held high, and that

tamped down the arguing enough for her to speak. “I remember when the well

started collapsing, and I told you about how every generation in my GCF family

lived by their code. This idea that nothing from above was ever wrong. My

grandparents, my parents, my aunts and uncles. All those admirals and vice admirals, so wrong. So often, they just went with it.” She faced Demi with sharp

eyes. “You remember that?”

Demi did. She nodded and gave Casey the space to nish her thought. “It was just me and Demi,” Casey said as she looked around. “Standing in the

captain’s quarters. Staring at the lashes of red energy. Terrifying. I remember

realizing that was why I didn’t look out any of the windows. But that night, I

forced myself to look. Because that was our reality. And I asked you to never be

like them. Never be just another o cer. Not to us. And you promised. And you

weren’t; we saw your honesty every day. You never lied.” She came back to Demi,

her expression somewhere between challenging and pleading. “I like to think

you haven’t changed since we’ve been back. We trust Demi, but can we trust

GCF Captain Kim?”

“ ‘A military’s a military, even in peacetime.’ That’s what I always heard. ‘You

can’t trust them.’ I thought I knew better. It’s why I joined the eet. And now

we’re at war,” said Lindsay Ballard, the Horizon’s chief of environmental

operations. “Can we trust anyone in the Cluster?

I defended you to my parents

last week. Now this?

The WM was goaded into Ark Getru. What is Command

even doing?

What other deaths are they responsible for?”

Demi saw it now, like her vision suddenly focused with startling clarity. Casey

was right: in the well, she could protect them because it was only the Horizon,

the colony ships, and the Lumersians. In Cluster space, eventually something

would break through. The attacks came from too many sides, in too many ways. Military commands, war resources, the drip of information to and from friends

and family, the needs of people who stayed aboard…

Follow command or serve her crew. It had to be one or the other, because

satisfying both in a time of war was impossible. The soldiers dying on the front

lines, the civilians caught in collateral damage, the politics squeezing the life out

of both sides, she couldn’t dent those losses. The Horizon couldn’t dent those

losses. But as she looked at the people who survived with her, the choice was easy. And the choice was right. She owed them, for every single loss under her

command. “You can trust me,” Demi said slowly. This lowered the volume—and tension

—enough to be heard. “Command asked me to lie to you. I won’t. The way I see

it, you, me, this ship, we’re not changing the course of the war, so I’m choosing

to prioritize us. Life is di erent within the Horizon’s walls. I say that all the time

and I mean it.” The murmurs nally settled, and Demi saw her opening. “It’s

not always going to be clean. But if we want to protect ourselves, sometimes

things go sideways. Here’s what I’m asking of you—I talk about the di erence

between the Horizon and life out there; I’m asking you to treat this the same.”

Now everyone’s eyes turned to her: Neera in the back, Tanav and Lynn o to

her right, Casey still in front, and the rest of the group. Demi took a moment to

look at them, to really take in their faces and understand them. Because this was

survival too, but messier and more complicated. She couldn’t control that, but

she could at least give them stability. “With each other, whatever you need to say

or feel about Ark Getru is ne. Your opinions are your own. But to keep

Command out there, you must use the cover story in any communications to

family or other crews.”

“It’s being complicit. You’re asking us to lie,” Aurora immediately said, and

others agreed. Demi looked at Aurora, noting the tension in her shoulders, the harsh

attening of her lips. “If we want to keep this ship, this crew together and safe,

then sometimes it calls for going with orders. It’s a compromise to prioritize us.”

She gauged the reaction again, logic tipping things her way. Not necessarily

enthusiastic approval, but at least something between understanding and

acceptance. They’d skirted guidelines before, taking shortcuts or fudging reports. None

of those moments came with this contention, and Demi didn’t know if that

stemmed from the scope of Ark Getru’s destruction or from the fact that those

choices often came as a group. For now, she needed to lower the tension and give

everyone some breathing room. “This isn’t over. I suggest we all sit with it for

another day or two. Can you give me that?

Have I earned that?” Several

a rmatives rippled through the crowd. “We’ll know when the time is right. Until then, I’m available for private discussions. Or gripes. Or yelling, if you

need it. Or if you need to pet Indy.” A greyhound mention grabbed enough laughs to settle things down, enough that Demi dismissed the crew and very

quietly exhaled. They shu ed out, and as she observed, Demi caught herself

alone and wondering about ramen night. Were they trying to capture something that didn’t exist anymore?

Grant would know. And while she missed Grant’s friendship the most, his

sensible grasp of the crew really, really helped in moments like this—and with

the upcoming Command status meeting. Because the topic of Ark Getru was

sure to dominate. Except she wasn’t the only one in the observation lounge. Tanav had

disappeared with the rest for a moment, but then came back. Of course he’d be

the one to break protocol. He’d probably ask if she was all right. She told herself

that, given everything, it was okay to let some reality through in her response. She kind of owed him that, given their big crew talk about honesty. “You’ve had easier days,” he said, empathy laced into his tilted brow and soft

smile. “That obvious?” Demi asked, rubbing her face in her hands. “I get the feeling that it’s been a rough twenty-four hours for you. And I

don’t exactly have any crew duties right now, so…”

Tanav always downplayed his role, despite the fact that it took on more

importance the smaller the crew got. He just couldn’t see that. “I just wonder if

I’ve lost all their trust,” she said. “I had this moment yesterday”—Tanav started as he leaned against one of the

lounge’s tall, thin tables—“when I realized how tightly you’ve been holding it

together.”

He noticed that?

“I should deny that.”

“I think that’s the problem.” Tanav gave a small laugh, which caused a

matching chuckle to sneak out from Demi. “Everyone’s used to you being

impervious to stress. Sometimes they don’t remember that you’re actually a

person underneath that.” Her sigh lled the empty lounge, and as much as she

tried, snapping back into captain mode suddenly didn’t feel as easy as it normally

did. “They’re shaken,” Tanav continued. “I am too. That footage. I’ve never seen

anything like that.”

“Things like that aren’t supposed to happen.” Demi paused, surprised at the

low tone in her voice. “I’d be worried if that didn’t shake them.”

“Hey,” he said. She’d heard that word said in that way before—Grant used to

do that before imparting wisdom. Did Tanav pick it up from Grant, or was this

just the standard operating procedure for talking down a stressed captain?

“You

didn’t cause that. You know?”

Which was such an odd thing to say. Of course she didn’t cause that. Maybe

that meant something di erent in Tanav’s universe, a whole separate meaning to

phrases. Tanav’s words almost worked opposite than intended, and Demi

assumed the strong shoulders and straight back of her rank and role. “It doesn’t

matter who caused it. It a ects all of us. My job is to keep those ripples at bay.”

“You’re asking for a very reasonable thing. People are in shock. They need to

let it wear o rst.” He o ered just a hint of a smile at that. “That’s my o cial,

non-military-yet-military perspective.”

“Noted.” With that single word, Demi’s inner switch ipped, mind revving

up to meet with Command. “Tanav, you’re a good o cer,” she said,

emphasizing the last word as she gestured toward the exit. He averted his eyes, and his pace dropped slightly behind her. “I’m not really

an o cer.” Which he said from time to time. And sometimes she tried to engage

him about how value on the ship didn’t need to come from technical know-how

or things like that, but here she chose to stay quiet and instead o ered a warm

look. The observation lounge’s doors slid open, and they stepped out. Several steps

ahead, Lindsay stood with eyes trained on a tablet. They turned to Demi and

Tanav but diverted their look right after meeting Demi’s. Instead, as they passed,

Lindsay said hello only to Tanav before turning back to the screen. Demi didn’t exactly ignore things during the weekly war status meetings, but her

ship didn’t carry troops, equipment, or frontline support, which usually put it

far lower on Command’s priority list. Near each meeting’s end, Demi usually provided the latest information on the photonic engine tests, usually on things

like synth generation e cacy or examination of current jump-cycle stages. This time would be di erent. Something had changed. Because a urry of

messages arrived right upon leaving the observation lounge, all involving the

photonic engine. At her desk, she called Indy over and sat with each message. The greyhound leaned against her hip, and Demi found that the deeper this

went, the tighter she hugged her dog. Command asked how much of the Horizon’s resources were taken by

photonic tests. Research & Development asked why the synthetic photons

developed by Cluster scientists kept failing. Stellar cartography asked what a

successful jump range might eventually look like compared to standard FTL. Even Advanced Security Measures got in on it, with a curt demand for all the

reasons why the engine wouldn’t jump. And just to rub it in, Tactical Resources asked how much time was lost on

this “science experiment.”

“Indy,” she said, kissing the dog on the nose, “a walk in the California

redwoods sounds good about now, doesn’t it?

A long walk. My childhood dog

loved it.”

A long walk was better than the alternative, which would have been

screaming so loud the bridge crew on the other side of the deck would have

heard her. The Horizon had just gone from being the eet’s footnote to the thing that

every department suddenly wanted. Which would further complicate the

growing unease among the crew, especially since Demi had no answers. Neera

spent entire days testing di erent stages of the photonic engine, yet acquired no

rm explanations. Or solutions. It really was too bad the engine didn’t work. Because if it did, they could at

least take it somewhere far away from this cycle of escalation between the Cluster

and the WM. At the end of it, asking her crew to repeat a cover story suddenly

seemed like it might be the least terrible thing to come out of this. All for a “science experiment.” But much more than a mere science

experiment. Demi looked at the corner table underneath the room’s large glass dome, eyes

focusing in the dim light. On it sat a metallic unit of sorts, a cuboid with a

frontal square, two feet each way and a depth of one foot—not too di erent

from the units in engineering. This particular photonic containment unit captured a single purple spark, a

dot of energy that used to be a square plane but now was barely strong enough

to glow. Even still, it existed, and that meant part of Chuck, or Photonic Being

#910047, still existed, despite being used up, dead, or however Lumersians

addressed the state of being deceased. She missed him. So much that staring at the barely visible purple glow pulled

her mind away, long enough for Indy to decide to lie down on her bed. Long enough to remain lost until a chime yanked her back into reality. It rang again from her desk, and Demi squeezed her eyes tightly shut and held

in a breath that lasted for two more chimes. Her eyes ew open and she stu ed all of that emotion right down. Duty

called. The room lit up with the desk’s display, but rather than Minister Cabell, vice

admirals, or admirals, Demi stared at charts. Ark Getru’s death toll, Ark Getru’s

resource impact, Ark Getru’s social awareness, Ark Getru’s supply chain impact;

everything tied into the disaster and its fallout. For forty- ve minutes, voices

narrated over numbers and graphs, with the occasional map of troop movements

and related intel swapping into view. Turned out, Demi’s hunch was correct: this only created more chaos, with

GCF resources being shu ed to and fro but without any true purpose. If the

WM meant to bring the Cluster back to negotiations with such an act, it failed. If anything, this might extend the war. That realization sunk in, and right when

Demi let out a sigh, she heard her name. “We’re running long,” said a voice she didn’t recognize, and with the display

still full of charts, it remained unidenti ed. “But we need to hear from Captain

Demora Kim of the Horizon. Captain Kim, does the photonic engine work?”

This was bait with no good answer. A quick, obvious reply downplayed

Neera’s work. A long-winded response would paint the Horizon as an ongoing

waste of time. “Our progress has been more theoretical than practical since my last report. We continue to test in stages per safety and security protocols,” she

said in careful cadence. “But we’ve had comm array repairs this week. That’s

been where a lot of our e orts have been.”

“Isn’t the Horizon’s entire purpose to get the photonic engine online?

And

you’re saying you can’t even support that?

Then what will nish this science

experiment?”

There it was again—“science experiment.”

Hearing the phrase said out loud touched a nerve deeper than reading it in a

message. The photonic engine started as a grand e ort that blended tech from

di erent cultures, and its repair followed suit with Cluster standards. Science

experiments through and through, but for Demi, the only science experiment

that mattered was her relationship with a photonic being. She’d even jokingly called their relationship just that, to which Chuck replied,

“Experiments are de ned by their hypothesis, controls, and metrics. Have we

applied that to our time together?”

To hear their term twisted into condescension ignited a raw wound upon so

much more. Her home was unrecognizable and growing more alien by the

minute. Now Ark Getru, then the mess about Ark Getru, then the near miss

with Lynn, and Chuck was still gone. Demi’s internal defenses broke. Her face

ushed, frustration and disappointment clouding her ability to put together a

single coherent thought. A rare moment of pure sarcastic impulse broke through. “More engineers. We’re not even a skeleton crew.”

A deep breath later, a wave of regret. She shouldn’t have done that. And she knew it right away. “Understood, Captain Kim. We’ll take that request under consideration. Apologies for running long, let’s hope the galaxy has a better week when we

speak next.”

Under consideration. What had Demi unleashed?

Three days later, Demi got the answer when a new message arrived:

PRIORITY: Imminent Crew Transfer to Horizon

Captain Kim, per your request, Command has expedited authorization for the

transfer of eight support engineers and analysts to support the photonic engine

project. In addition, under the supervision of Commander Jonathan Matthews, an

additional complement of thirty-three crew will be assigned to bring the Horizon

closer to its preferred capacity for standard operations, including a new first officer. “Expedited authorization.” Could they even do that?

Demi laughed to herself at that question. They asked the entire eet to cover

up a terrorist attack. So transferring support sta to an under-resourced ship

with highly prized experimental tech, she supposed, was nothing in the scheme

of things. Demi sank into her chair, a pit in her gut pulling her down harder than the

ship’s arti cial gravity systems. She had pledged to keep everything outside the

ship, and in her moment of weakness, she was the one who invited it in. Tension

already ensnared the group. This wouldn’t help. If anything, it showed how

much was out of Demi’s hands—out of all their hands. And Commander Jonathan Matthews?

Was that the new rst o cer?

Or was he just overseeing this transition?

Either way, life on the Horizon was about to change—and whoever took the

rst o cer chair wouldn’t ll the shoes of Grant Singh. Not even close. Demi

read the orders one more time and wondered if she could convince Neera to

accept a promotion before all this went down. CHAPTER 6

DEMI

Demi gave herself an evening’s sleep before informing the crew of the impending

changes. “Sorry for ruining breakfast,” she started, with everyone gathered in the

mess hall. That joke didn’t save the discussion from accomplishing just that. The

reactions went somewhat as expected: Neera and Macek asked about the kind of

engineering support they would be getting. Tanav asked if she needed help

onboarding new crew. Lynn tried to talk up a positive spin to things. Karl, the

ship’s eldest o cer, even said it might feel good to support the eet, given the

recent attacks. Which drew all sorts of looks. Others, like Casey, stood stone-faced at the news, staring at their oatmeal or

pancakes like Demi didn’t exist. Lindsay simply left the room. But at least they didn’t outright argue with one another. Despite the growing

fractures between Demi and the crew, if they still trusted one another, then that

would be a win for now. The rest would gure itself out over the coming days. That was how Demi and Grant handled it in the early days of the gravity well,

when they made the decision to share resources with the other colony ships. That worked out in the end, so maybe this would too. Of course, that was still under the context of survival. This was the eet and

the Cluster worming their way onto the Horizon. This dichotomy played out as

transfers gradually arrived over the following days: engineers, technicians, new

faces that arrived with the most unexpected realization:

To them, Demi was something of a celebrity. Crew members unloaded, bringing awkward smiles, stumbled introductions,

lingering glances; the story of returning the Horizon from hell must have

captured their awe. Too bad reality didn’t come close to the myth. Demi began

adapting stock replies, counting down until this moment when the nal shuttle

docked. A headache brewed as Demi waved to the craft’s nal passenger, a young,

starstruck ensign named Diaz who’d given an enthusiastic if rehearsed speech:

“Captain Kim. I just wanted to say, I’ve read all the details about your time in

the gravity well and your encounters with the Lumersian species. They sound

fascinating.” Demi tried her best for a calm, neutral pose—a bit of practice for

her newfound commitment to protocol. “At the academy, I specialized in both

piloting and xenobiology. So I’m a bit of a fan. If that’s okay to say so.”

“Two specialties in the academy. An overachiever. You’ll like our resident

xenobiologist,” Demi said, and Diaz laughed much louder than a person

normally would. “If the Horizon has to evade a WM attack, you’ll be in safe hands with me.”

Diaz couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of the academy,

especially if he was in the rotation program for new graduates. An entire generation so used to war that they casually discussed it. What a waste. Diaz saluted and left, and Demi was about to follow him when her eyes hung

on the corner of the docked craft. The bottom-left corner of the outer hull

carried the cracks and scorch marks of an attack, the burnt discoloration

overtaking the last two painted digits of the shuttle’s registry number. Plenty of transport ships brought supplies and equipment over recent

months, each craft arriving in pristine condition, with war scars patched up

prior to their next assignment. Now it appeared no one was hiding from the

reality of the war. Not even new recruits. More mechanical noises came, a mix of grinding gears and released

hydraulics, followed by the sound of boots on metal. The footsteps echoed

before a silhouette appeared on the shuttle’s loading ramp. Shadows covered

their identity until he got all the way down and turned, pausing only to survey

the Horizon’s docking bay, though the deep blue trim of GCF Command stood out on the uniform. He took several steps closer, the docking bay’s light casting

over close-cropped hair, tanned and scarred cheeks, and creases that seemed

permanently etched around his eyes. Commander Jonathan Matthews. Demi had spent the last few days perusing his records, at least what she could

access. Born in the extra-system colony of Barnard, a childhood survivor of the

HBT attacks, a member of the local military that liberated Re ex Point—and

from there, he moved to the Cluster, eventually joining the Advanced Security

Measures division. Also, people considered him “matter-of-fact.”

From his scowl to his lumbering walk, he seemed more of a military

stereotype come to life. Which made his interest in a science ship even more

confusing. “Commander,” Demi said, hand to brow in a customary salute. Mathews’s

hand came up in return, though it stopped halfway, turning more into a casual

wave rather than an o cial gesture. “Welcome to the Horizon.”

He spoke as he walked, making eeting eye contact with Demi. “We barely

made it. Nearly ran out of fuel.” His words came with a slight drawl that

con rmed the extra-system upbringing in his record. “Either our onboard

computer forgot how to count, or the depot manager did.” His gru chuckle

lled with annoyance, though Demi couldn’t tell who its target was. “Maybe

both. Transports don’t have time to get prim and proper these days.” His gaze

dropped to the metal panels of the docking bay oor. He knelt to swipe a nger

against the oor, then stood up again. “Not like this place. Not a speck of dust

here.”

“A lot of equipment comes through. We try to keep it clean, ensure that

particulate matter and other debris won’t cause interference.” Demi caught

herself being defensive, a position usually saved for meetings with upper tiers of

GCF Command and their requests. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if he sensed her annoyance. “I’m being petty, aren’t I?

I’ll try that again.”

“Tensions are high right now,” Demi said, much quicker than she’d intended. “Yeah,” he said, looking around. “Ark Getru will do that to people.” He

nodded toward the docking bay’s exit and set out, Demi tracking his pace. “Your

crew buying the cover story?

I hear it’s not going over in a lot of places. Footage

is leaking, people are nding out.”

Was this a test of some sort from Command?

Or was this why his pro le

noted his reputation for being “matter-of-fact”?

Demi gambled on the latter and

decided to o er honesty in return. “We’re a ten-year-old science vessel equipped

with hardware from multiple universes. Sometimes things don’t work.” Some

honesty, at least. She wasn’t going to explain that she refused to lie to her crew. “A technical issue led to some of the crew being exposed to Cabell’s message. They know to keep it quiet to newcomers. I’ve put in a request to upgrade

outdated comm hardware but—”

“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice sharp with clipped words. “For now, this

ship needs to stay exactly as it is.”

His statement was so unexpected that Demi waited to respond. He pulled a

tablet o his belt and began thumbing through schematics. Schematics of the Horizon’s comm system. Why would he have that already loaded?

“Your opinion is noted,” she nally said. Matthews o ered a half smile in return. “Look, you can probably tell that I’m

really not good at small talk, so I’m gonna be direct. It’ll save us time. Fair?”

On the one hand, this was probably the most honest conversation Demi had

ever had with external o cers since they’d returned from the gravity well. On the

other hand, she was certain Matthews had bad news in store. “Fair.”

“Your job is to either get your engine working or not.” Matthews at least

paused his schematic reading to look her in the eye. “The clock is ticking. Don’t

ask why. I can’t tell you.”

Demi was used to some measure of disrespect from GCF Command since

coming home. The Horizon’s arrival seemed to be more nuisance than anything

else. When she pushed back against transitioning to war assets, they

begrudgingly agreed—mostly because the Horizon’s sudden return made for

great publicity, a victory against impossible odds. But every message from Command since came with the implication that they had done her a favor. Still,

that tone came from admirals and other senior o cials. Who was this random

commander to come in and give obscure orders to her, on her ship no less?

“Commander Matthews, I have received no such timetable from GCF

Command. If you’re expressing an opinion, consider it noted.”

He raised his hands, head bowed in contrition that seemed sincere. “I

promise you, I’m not being insubordinate. Now look, I go ship to ship, sector to

sector, captain to captain. I evaluate what we need to save lives and protect

people. Command was already reviewing your ship’s speci cations when your

engineering request came in. They asked my opinion. I looked over this ship, this

crew. It’s a hell of a history, I have to say. I’m trying to respect what you’ve been

through. But you’ve had your time. There has to be a cap, especially when there

aren’t any results. They’re giving you days for a live test of the engine. Full cycle. Not stages or simulations.”

“Days?” Demi scanned his face for clues, while her best instincts muted the

logical follow-up: What could possibly make them want something so soon?

It didn’t matter, though. Matthews practically read her mind. “Yes, days. Your ship is needed. One test. It jumps or it doesn’t.”

Demi tamped down her shock, tapping into years of training under Captain

Hayes, her former superior and mentor. She gured this was coming. She’d

gotten enough side-eyes and pithy comments from Command not to suspect it

was in the works. But she’d made a promise. The war wasn’t supposed to exist. This wasn’t their ght. She tried to keep

them away from the chaos, yet her own mistake let it in. “With respect, Commander—” Demi started, but he put up a hand. “You don’t have to respect me. You outrank me,” he said, pointing to the

blue stripes on her uniform’s arm. “I’m just the messenger.”

“The Horizon is not a battleship. It never has been. It has standard defense

and minimal attack capabilities.” Demi opted not to rattle o the ship’s speci cs. “Its charter was exploration, mapping, and data collection. It’s not going to turn

the tide of their war.”

As soon as she said the word “their,” she knew it was a mistake. Another

mistake. She’d talked about it as a separate issue for so long, a slip came out naturally. But she couldn’t give Matthews any advantages, not with tension

already tightening his jaw and brow. He stared blankly at her, as if he needed a

moment to reset. “This morning, I saw an entire ship go down because the WM bombed a

munitions transport. A week ago, we all saw a space station crash into a planet

without a single chance to rescue thousands of lives,” he said slowly. “They make

quick, destructive strikes. They’re not waiting for orders like we are. Intelligence

thinks they have new FTL tech far faster than Cluster standard. And it is costing

us. So it’s everyone’s war, until it isn’t. Science ships support the front line. Repairs, medical staging, resource conversion. Meeting places.” Matthews bit

down on his bottom lip, like he tried to contain something about to burst out. Everyone’s war. Was it really?

Demi grounded herself, sensing the stability of the oor

beneath her to stem the oncoming ire in her gut. She felt control slipping away,

putting her in the role of innocent bystander against the inevitability of the war,

like a virus replicating out of control. Though she wouldn’t let Matthews see it, Demi kicked herself for ever being

so naïve. “Like I said, you put in a request. Then I put in a request. You outrank me, so

if you don’t agree, take it up with Command and put in another request. I

respect the chain of command.” He turned away from her, nishing his sentence

as he started down the hall. “Let’s leave it at that. I can’t tell you anymore.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Demi probably could have phrased it a little better, but at

this point, they were already butting heads, so why not. It did make him pause, though. “A little bit of both,” he said, his tone

humbler than she expected. “We should set course for Base Gamma Twenty-

One. It’s the closest one to your mapped convergence point. You’ll prep at

Gamma Twenty-One, then FTL to the convergence point and re it up. If you’ll

excuse me, I need to check out the hardware in stellar cartography.”

Matthews’s departure should have been a welcome sight, except now he

moved deeper into her ship. And an hour after Matthews left the docking bay, a

message from Vice Admiral Swapna Krishna made the orders o cial:

The War Council decided the Horizon is a top priority to the war effort. All imminent

test proceedings will be monitored with elevated visibility. Diagnostics are synced

with the computers in our lab at central command. You are to contact us immediately following completion of the test—succeed or fail. With the new goal announced, tasks were assigned and executed like an

undammed current. Even the unhappy crew members did their job, and by all

metrics, they did them well. Something about having a mission and a deadline lit

a spark through the Horizon. At the center of it was Neera and his mix of new and old engineers. Command suggested forty-eight hours before initiating the test; Demi

negotiated it to seventy-two hours, with the excuse that most of the crew arrived

on the ship days ago and they deserved the luxury of breathing room. In the

middle of that, Demi checked in with Tanav to see if he’d heard rumblings

among the crew, given the rapid changes. “I can’t say who. And I can’t say for

sure. But I think you might hear of some transfer requests in the coming day.”

None came through during that span. If crew dealt with misgivings or

bitterness, they didn’t present it to her yet. Strangely, everyone worked well as a

team together, with Neera overseeing a plant for a full jump sequence built from

individual test stage data. The truth was, however, that they’d learned little

about what actually worked. Rather, those tests eliminated some of what didn’t work. With the seventy-two hours nearly burned up, Demi arrived in engineering

for a nal check, or at least a pep talk. The double doors swept open, and she

entered the tall bay where the standard GCF engine room held the pulsing white

of standard plasma-based propulsion surrounded by an upper-level walkway. In

the middle sat a system built up with the technology of far-ranging cultures, a

variety of complexities that looked like a single large tube jutting out of a large

glass case. But inside that tube sat all sorts of circuits and wires, conduits and

power cells stitched together for a not-quite-perfected jump process. The photonic engine. And connected to it was a smaller module: the generator crafted over months

to convert physical matter to synthetic photons. With the clock counting down,

Neera and his team all hunched over it, tapping at interfaces or reading scanners. “How is everything?” Demi called out, arms propped on the railing across the

top perimeter. She waved Neera to join her at the vantage point, and the tall

gure set down his tools to turn her way. She nodded once more and waved

again, and only after that did Neera leave the team working their stations. Part of the reason why Demi wanted Neera as her rst o cer was that he was

the most capable: intelligent, thoughtful, analytical, and loyal. His intuition

always rose to the moment, just like on the outer hull. His problem was that he

remained blind to it, and even here, he still needed that extra push before

breaking from his station. That type of permission came with the rank. If only he would have accepted it—and accepted that in himself. It was too late now, with newly assigned Commander Doug Connors taking

the spot. They still worked on nding a rhythm, but at the very least, Connors’s

rst days showed him to be amiable and sharp, and even now, he gladly went to

the science lab to support the photonic test. Connors’s only issue was that he was an o cer. A ne one, yet not a survivor. He’d simply never fully understand some things about her. Not like Neera. “All stations monitoring,” Neera said as he approached. “Pre-jump power

cycling has completed. Final checks are being processed. Synth quantity has been

generated to the proper amount.”

“I gured that,” Demi said, nudging him with her elbow. Which, given their

height di erence, connected with him more across the forearm. “When I asked

‘how is everything,’ that includes you. This is the culmination of everything.”

“My thoughts on the process do not a ect the outcome,” he said after a long

moment. “Command will be observing no matter what.”

She hadn’t explicitly told him that. Once again, his intuition proved correct. “You’re psychic, then.” A second passed before a small grin formed on his lips. He almost got it. “You’re telling me you don’t like how we got here.” Demi took

a deep sigh, one hand through her short hair. “No argument there. I don’t know,

sometimes things don’t go right until they’re forced to.”

Neera stared straight ahead, though his weight tilted forward. Demi knew

what this meant. If Neera was preoccupied with the test, he’d have worked the

tablet in his hand or watched the large display on the far corner or possibly excused himself to go to the synth generator. “Something’s on your mind?” she

asked. “The numbers are not lining up as we would like.” His gaze remained, locked

on somewhere past her. “ ‘We’?”

“Sadler.” Demi recognized the name of Neera’s engineer friend. It wasn’t an

o cial collaboration by any means, but at this point, she’d take any help she

could get. “The previous stage four tests were reviewed by him. Decay issues still

appear in—” Demi’s sideways look stopped him before he got too deep in

explanation. “Issues still appear. Worries have gripped me.”

“You think the engine might be dangerous?”

“No. Shuto gates and emergency venting mechanisms are built in.” Neera’s

head fell, a sharp gesture that caught the eye of Macek on the lower level. He

enunciated slowly, a clear e ort in his cadence. “I worry about what happens to

our pack if we fail. It does not sound like we will get another opportunity.”

There it was—the rare vulnerability that she often urged Neera to embrace. She understood his struggle, though, since she shared it as well. Maybe that was

why she admired him so. “I’m the captain. Those are my worries. Not yours.”

“Yes.” Sometimes Neera would say that and immediately switch back into

being deferential. This time the word came with a weight of compassion, a

subtle acknowledgment that he grasped what she faced. “The solution to the

engine is something I wish for constantly.”

“Chuck would know.” Demi’s hand gripped the rail tight enough that her

knuckles went pale. From below, tools chirped and mechanical pieces groaned as

they shifted into place. “Chuck would know,” she repeated. “A smoother jump cycle would bene t from Chuck’s knowledge.” Now

Neera turned to her with a direct look and his large hand landed on top of hers. “Chuck made things better for the both of us.”

They remained that way for a beat, sinking into the type of compassion built

only through circumstance and mutual experience. Then she let it go, a single

quick nod that sent her silently back to the bridge, while giving Neera

permission to return to his work. “Captain on the bridge.”

Demi stepped forward, her posture and demeanor re ecting her o cial

presentation. The doors slid shut behind her, and she locked eyes with the

person making the announcement: a yeoman named Chambers. Having a yeoman would take some getting used to. So would this full bridge crew: busy stations, constant chatter, endless blips

from consoles. But it was more than just the full crew. The full protocol of it all

would take getting used to as well. She strode toward the captain’s chair, each step moving with the poise and

authority expected of her rank. “At ease, everyone,” she said, settling into her

seat. The bridge crew responded in kind by returning to their stations. As

Chambers walked over to the front data table, Demi caught the young

helmsman from the other day hiding a beaming grin—Diaz, the enthusiastic

xenobiologist and pilot. On the surface, it was everything a GCF captain could want. Yet it all felt half-steeped in a dream, like her imagination snapped up

di erent pieces of childhood starship expectations and blended them with her

memories for something that was as clean as it was uncanny. “Ahem.” The voice came from behind her, and Demi turned to see

Commander Matthews standing in the doorway to the bridge. “Permission to sit

in?”

He’d spent the seventy-two hours examining the di erent sections of the

Horizon—reading schematics, examining the ship’s comm arrays, and

apparently chatting with a lot of the crew. They’d passed in the hallways but

avoided conversation—intentionally or unintentionally, given that Matthews

always seemed too engrossed by the information on his tablet to notice her. And

now, he sat in on the moment that might decide the fate of everyone on the ship. Demi gestured toward the rst o cer’s chair that Connors now owned,

though he continued his support work in the science lab. “I’m sure Connors

won’t mind if you keep his seat warm for a few minutes.”

“It’s good to see how a crew functions during pivotal moments,” he said,

shifting his gaze to Lynn’s comm station as he sat. “I have complete con dence in them,” Demi said. The crew, yes. Even the

new transfers. The engine?

Neera’s fears echoed in her mind. As did his comment about Chuck. Everything would have been better if Chuck were here. In so many ways. She pushed the thought away before it could color her emotions. “All right,

everyone,” she said. “Let’s show our guest what makes the Horizon special. I

hear we’ve got quite the to-do list today.”

Chuckles rippled through the bridge, though Matthews stayed quiet. Even

Lynn—Lieutenant Kohli, as per proper protocol—let out a small laugh before

she hailed the station, fully recovered from her space walk incident. They were ready. And that was such an odd feeling. This wasn’t the crew or

ship she was used to. This was more capable, more functional, more o cial. Part

of this felt so very right, so strangely comforting. Except deep down, she recognized a burn, like a subtle acid in her veins that

rejected this situation, whatever it was. Because accepting it felt like it just might

overwrite every single thing about the past ten years. “This is GC Horizon to Base Gamma Twenty-One. We are ready for

departure. Please release docking clamps.”

“Acknowledged, Horizon,” came a male voice, an unearthly growl to its

deeper tone. The data table projected a new hologram of the live transmission,

front and center with a thin comm o cer, a layer of fur poking out from

beneath a headband of goggles. “Docking clamps released. You are cleared for

departure. Safe travels.” The voice placed a strange a ect on the last syllable in

“travels.”

The transmission closed, leaving a view of the yawning chasm of space,

pinpricks of light cast in front of the ship. Everything ahead tilted as the

Horizon pulled from Gamma Twenty-One. “Captain,” Yeoman Chambers said, stepping over from her station at the

bridge’s rear. She presented a tablet of glowing text, then stood at attention, her

neck and shoulders in perfect alignment. “Command requests immediate

communications following the test.”

“Understood,” Demi said before addressing everyone on the bridge. “An

executed photonic jump requires us to be at a convergence of photonic energy. We’ve managed to properly identify a few of these points. We’ll head to the

nearest one to commence the full test of the engine. Commander Neera has a

newly generated batch of synthetic photons.” Nods circled from station to

station. “Any questions?”

“Yes. Are the bridge stations all original hardware?” Matthews asked, still

looking at his tablet. Diaz interrupted them before she could make an appropriate response. “Captain, we’re ready for FTL to the convergence point.”

Matthews constantly inquired about the ship’s hardware—probably gauging

how battle-ready it might be. Demi tapped her nger against the chair’s console,

a tell of her frustration that she caught after it ran too long. “Those stations

could tell stories if they could talk.” She refused to let the Horizon’s old bones

give him any reason to doubt the integrity of the ship or her crew. Instead, she

took Diaz’s enthusiasm and rewarded it. “Ensign Diaz. They’re still nishing in

the science lab, so go ahead and pick a speed threshold you’re comfortable with. I trust your training.”

Diaz nodded, now a full grin visible in the rise of his cheeks. “Yes, Captain. Engines primed and ready, at your call.”

“All right, Ensign,” she said, adjusting the tone and pitch of her voice to

exude full con dence. “Take us there.”

CHAPTER 7

NEERA

Tests were usually one of Neera’s favorite things. Trial, error, improvement,

solutions—such a practical, constructive process. This time, it ate at his nerves. Something was wrong. Not in early diagnostics, or anything that would even

a ect engine operations. This was di erent. It went beyond equipment or processes—something

bigger. But for his immediate purposes, it was ultimately only a test. Neera repeated that to himself, his height towering over the human-size

station. Maybe this would have been just a test several months ago, when the

Horizon was a playground for theories and prototypes. A life of science, finally

achieved. That time seemed lost now, what little space he made for himself in

this strange universe being eaten away by war. War. He knew war. At home, the Regent Empire crushed all oppositions and

uprisings. Here, the Cluster and the Withdrawal Movement traded losses in

ways that took up too many resources and spared too few civilians. Even in the

gloating headlines—GCF Forces Score Decisive Blow Against Withdrawal

Movement Guerillas in Border Battle; Report: No Truth to Rumors of WM’s

New FTL Engine; Welcome Parade Set as Tirolian System Joins Galactic Cluster

—Neera knew enough to see the undertones of wartime communication. Like

when Demi acknowledged that Command watched the test closely, that meant

more. The others around him might not have caught it. But Neera knew. War made test results a demand rather than a scienti c

inquiry. Support had arrived, which meant someone somewhere wanted the engine. Or the Horizon. Or both. Demands for results always came from that sort of

ownership claim. Matthews made it very clear that he had one concern, and it had little to do

with photonic beings or mapping uncharted space. “I need to see the

maintenance logs for the entire comm array and transmission system. Every

record going back to launch, including any data on hardware used for repairs,”

he’d told Neera, completely ignoring the containment unit of glowing pink

synth. Per his nature, Neera obeyed. That request still seemed odd, and he

assumed that Matthews was evaluating ship functions on a section-by-section

basis. Neera blinked and focused on the test, both sets of his eyelids sliding over the

glossy black of his eyeballs as he took in the displays in front of him. How did

humans do this, with their narrowly set vision?

They could focus on, what, two,

maybe three displays at once?

But engineering, of all places, had a dozen charts,

diagnostics, and monitors ashing across a panel of six horizontally locking

displays. It was a wonder that more human ships didn’t get stranded all the time. As if his thoughts projected across distant space, text popped up in the corner

dialogue window. Good luck, pal. Try not to blow anything up without me. —S

S, as in Sadler. As in Colin Sadler, GCF scientist. More than a scientist. Neera would, in fact, say Sadler was a fellow science enthusiast. And while

Neera’s arrival in Cluster space came with uneasy glances by a lot of the humans

who came and went, Sadler o ered wide-eyed enthusiasm. “You built this?” he had asked, the rst thing out of his mouth upon seeing

the photonic engine. No introductions, no greetings, no formalities, only

excitement over the engine’s modular nature, how it interconnected and utilized

pieces of tech—a plasma conductor from one universe, a compression capacitor adapted from another universe, all built and integrated over a GCF thermal

control system. Neera liked him right away. Maybe Sadler snuck in on some o cial GCF chatter to learn about this test

cycle. Or maybe his friend just had really good timing—Sadler did have a natural

a nity for calculations. Travel times, prep times, calibration times, and

bureaucracy times, all that remained simple arithmetic for Sadler to precisely

send a good-luck message. Neera typed out a short reply, then hit send:

Thank you. This is only a test. —N

As it transmitted, Neera wondered where on the front lines Sadler currently

served. He’d moved every few days, tweaking propulsion e ciency formulas or

adding chemicals to increase explosive power. Did Sadler know the truth about

Ark Getru?

If he did, could they discuss it?

Wherever he was, Sadler managed to monitor this. And, Neera noted, did not

mention his concerns about problematic decay rates from the last simulation. Perhaps Sadler believed in this test. The rst full test, in fact, of the photonic engine using synth. They’d tested

individual stages, of course, and ran a full-cycle simulation. And stability cycles

for the energy produced by the synthetic generator. Yet for months, something

always failed—a benchmark couldn’t be met, or dry runs didn’t complete. Nothing ever warranted them going to a convergence point and actually trying

to jump. They never got that far. And now, everyone watched. “The engine is ready for initializing,” he said to the panel’s comm systems. To

his left stood Aurora, who ran various instruments to monitor internal power

uctuations. Across the bay was a newer arrival, a human thermal engineer

named Ayenew. Though Ensign Ayenew came a week ago, Neera had hardly

seen him, his responsibilities clashing with Ayenew’s onboarding training and

protocols. Macek came up to him, each hand carrying two scanners. “It’s exciting, isn’t

it?” His wide grin marked the di erence between the two; they’d worked

together for years, and while Macek could exist forever in the process of it all,

Neera’s brain wired the opposite way, always focused on the goal. Still, he didn’t want his own anxieties to tamp down his friend’s excitement. “This moment is what we have strived for.”

“It’ll work,” Macek said as his grin broke wider. “It’ll work. Because we

worked on it.” He reached up to pat Neera on the shoulder, then did the same to

the others in the room. “Commander Neera and team, standby.” Demi’s voice shook him out of his

thoughts, and through the small window on his display, the bridge cam centered

her in the captain’s chair, a familiar adjustment in posture—one shoulder

forward and her chin tipped up, framed by her jet-black hair. That was her “on

the bridge” look, a combination of steady and curious that he’d come to trust,

even as outside pressures threatened it. To shut it all down and march forward—maybe that was the true mark of a

leader. “The countdown can begin at your request.”

“Diagnostic scans active and tracking,” Lynn said from the bridge, just out of

camera shot. “Data stream is owing to GCF Command.”

Demi said something to Commander Matthews, who sat next to her, then

faced forward. “Understood. Neera, take us there.”

Neera hit the button. All of this buildup just for a button. The hard work—generating the synth,

capturing it into a containment module, loading it into the engine, and

calibrating the engine’s intake for synthetic rather than organic photons, all of

that happened in the hours prior. Neera pushed a slender nger against the

display’s glowing icon. Now they waited. And watched. First the engine room’s deck plates rumbled. Then the conversion chamber

glowed, the neon pink of the photonic energy intensifying to a blinding glare

before darkening into a deep red hue. Through the monitor, crew voices chattered, repeating the numbers and

statuses ashing across Neera’s display. “Mix ratio is stable,” Ayenew said. Diaz’s voice came from the bridge helm station. “Convergence point lined up

with navigation.”

“Photonic activation hitting threshold minimums,” Aurora said. “Gravitational pull detected,” Neera read from the display, which prompted

Macek to cheer from across the room. The deck plate rattle grew louder, just as it did right before the engine

powered them out of the collapsing Lumersian gravity well. “Engine e ciency is at ninety- ve percent of optimal,” he said, though

overlapping voices and updates came from both engineering and over comms. Neera tuned out, focusing on the dynamic bar graphs on his display, uctuating

blue digits next to them. Though the speci c details didn’t matter, not on a

second-by-second level. The rumbling intensi ed, even shaking the scanning

device next to him. As he held a hand out to steady it, he checked for

consistently high bars on the display, their back-and-forth wavering never

dipping too far o course. Until they did. With it came warning lights. And voices:

“Synth viability dropping. Eighty percent. Seventy percent.”

“Photonic engine stalling.”

“Reaction rate stuck in stage three.”

So many voices, in fact, that any sense of pack got completely overwhelmed

by emotions and inputs, enough that Neera almost craved the e ciency of the

Regent Empire. “Neera,” Demi called over the monitor. “Give me your best take.”

“Their assessments can be con rmed,” Neera said, comparing displayed

values to the hums and rattles in front of him. “Levels for key internal tracking

are starting to drop.” The engine’s noise gradually settled, and Neera spoke into

the shoulder comm link embedded in his uniform. “Transmission: Neera to

Connors. A status check is needed for the power bay.”

“Connors here,” a voice said as he appeared via video display. Despite the

awkward angle, the clear gure of the Horizon’s tall, slim, new rst o cer sat at

the science lab’s secondary power station. “Power levels are nominal. Nothing

weird here, so that’s good. All uctuations seem to be contained to the photonic

systems.”

Nothing impacted the other ship systems—a good thing. Yet the photonic

engine didn’t want to clear the nal obstacle. Photonic space tugged at the ship,

but the Horizon stubbornly refused to let go of physical space. Which meant that the ship just might tear itself apart. Sadler’s concerns were right. Warning lights still ashed across the display, though they gradually sunk to

stable, most of the bar charts sliding downward into a more agreeable range. One of them, however, increased. “Connors, acknowledged,” Neera said. “Captain, the absorption process is

not executing quickly enough within the photonic engine. The energy remains

stuck rather than fully activating with the convergence point.”

“Staying in the chamber?” Demi’s voice kept its neutral tone, but Neera

knew her well enough to identify the rapid questioning as a sign of tension. “Overheating?”

“Heat tolerance is now eclipsing nominal and at one-hundred-ten percent,”

Ayenew called out. Which was out of turn, but Neera reminded himself that this new crew

would take time to fall into rhythm. “The fast decay is reappearing with

unknown causes,” he said. “The engine remains static when the energy decays

too quickly.”

“Helm, did we move?” Demi asked. On the monitor, Diaz spoke. “No, Captain, jump state was not achieved. We’re still within FTL range of Gamma Twenty-One.”

“One-hundred-twenty percent,” Ayenew said. Neera’s nger hovered over a single icon on the control panel, a button with

the word VENT in all large, capital, Earth-standard letters. He glanced over his

shoulder at the room’s environmental monitors, the numbers agreeing with his

own senses. Despite Dywen physiology being less sensitive to heat compared to humans and their thin epidermis, the sudden temperature spike caused a tingle

to the top of his hand. “Captain,” Neera said, “dangerous heat levels are about to be hit by the

engine. Venting is required once the process is aborted.”

“Hold it as long as you can. I want to be certain this is what we’re dealing

with. We’ve only got one shot at this.”

One shot. Neera ignored that part and stayed focused. Suddenly, everything worked. The heat tolerance dropped, its value shifting nominally, and then a di erent

type of vibration rattled the room, complete with a high-pitched frequency that

Neera recognized. The engine was processing photonic energy, a force powerful enough to

break through the space-time barrier and pull them into another dimension. From the conversion chamber, the glowing intensi ed until its brilliance caused

him to turn away. Just like when months ago it brought them here. As suddenly as it worked, everything stopped. The noise, the brightness, all

of it. The display grew active, thermal charts spiking beyond their limits. Instead

of opening a pathway between convergence points, energy stewed in the engine’s

chamber. And it was hot. So much that a wave of heat caused Neera to wince, and he

didn’t even bother telling Demi that the engine sat at 145 percent of heat

tolerance. Almost there. But “almost” might tear the ship apart. Neera’s nger slammed the vent button. Switches and mechanisms clicked, along with the pressurized whir of the

engine’s safety system. The temperature gauge on the wall rapidly dropped, and

following it, the color in the photonic engine drained, the once-bright glow

turning into a dull pink that gradually faded away along with the heat. Neera’s wide eld of vision caught Macek looking his way. Only a test. A failed one. Within seconds, everything stopped. Beneath his boots, the deck plates

steadied. And the temperature, the room’s precise environmental control system, reset to the optimal standard for human work. Quiet. Neera had grown so accustomed to the status beeps coming from di erent

displays that they didn’t register anymore. He may as well have stood in a

vacuum staring at a photonic engine that just tantrumed instead of jumping

twelve hundred light-years away. “Neera, the monitors show everything’s down.” Even through the comms,

Neera heard the shift in Demi’s tone, a slight acceleration to the way she spoke. “What happened?”

“The system needed to be vented.”

“I…” Now Neera looked at the small image of his friend in the captain’s chair,

small lines forming between her brows. He understood the chain of command

—it was a way of life from where he came from. In his native universe, he

wouldn’t have dared to make a decision like that on his own. And here, knowing

he made that split-second decision formed a queasy pit in his stomachs. “Overheat was imminent,” he said, words speeding up with justi cations. “Heat

tolerance at a hundred-forty percent due to a failure to mix with the convergence

energy—”

“I see.” Demi’s eyes darted at the various crew members around her—most of

which had not experienced life in the gravity well. To them, this was

insubordination. And that made his friend look bad. Neera probably should

have followed protocol. “I am o ering apologies, Captain,” he said, both for their friendship and for

anyone listening in. “A decision was required to save the ship.”

“Understood.” Tightness wrapped her voice as Macek ran over with a tablet

of data. “Note it in your report, and I’ll pass ndings along to—”

“Incoming message from GCF Command,” Lynn said o -screen. “Marked as

top priority. Where should I patch it through?”

A little while ago, Demi had said that Command’s opinion was her worry,

not his. Now they intertwined. “The report can be my top priority. I will put my attention on it for now,”

Neera said, tapping buttons to upload the test data to the GCF’s science hub—

most likely, Sadler just got a noti cation and was already digging through it. Maybe together they could take one thing o Demi’s list. “Commander Neera

out.” The bridge camera disappeared, leaving only diagnostic displays and their

associated status beeps. CHAPTER 8

DEMI

In the quiet of her quarters, Demi took a second to stare at herself. O cial

demands awaited, but she squinted, studying her image on the screen, along

with a GCF identi cation number and her full name in bold capital letters. And

next to it, her o cial pro le photo. The side of her lip curled. Ten years ago, when the Horizon set out to map

potential trade routes, she looked at this very same viewscreen, this very same

image and nameplate, with pride. Even her uniform was the same: sharp lines of

the dark gray overshirt and blue trim lining the vertical fold that sealed the

double-breast ap. That woman could have never imagined the Cluster being a war-complacent

machine. Nor could she have imagined being trapped across the galaxy, leading

twenty-two stranded ships to build a community of survivors. That woman

could have never imagined Chuck. Ten years later. Ten di cult, frustrating, and occasionally magical years. All

that panic and frustration, all the scratching and clawing, all the arguments and

disasters. And joy, however eeting it was. To come back to this?

Protocols and ranks and government-sanctioned cover-

ups—government-sanctioned war escalation?

Even some crew who survived a

decade in a gravity well with her, barely even said hello to her now—all because

of Command?

So much time passed, and yet the same photo remained: shoulder-length hair

then, compared to her current short crop; a few less lines on her face; a polite

smile instead of the smirk she felt in her cheeks. The eyes, though, they held the

starkest change—a brightness lurked underneath, an excitement at the

possibilities among the stars. Demi had considered resignation once, shortly after they had escaped the

well. The thought entered her mind—never documented in words, never spoken

aloud. But one day among the crew was all it took to push that aside. Because if

even a single member of her crew struggled, then she couldn’t walk away. That might have been the biggest lesson to pass on to the woman in the

photo. The monitor beeped impatiently again, and Demi sucked in a quick breath

before tapping the screen. Vice Admiral Swapna Krishna immediately appeared,

a war map displayed behind her, various icons and colors scattered across it—

and a large jagged red line across the top indicating the front. For better or

worse, Krishna was one of the few higher-ups Demi regularly spoke to, enough

that she could try to read between the lines of Krishna’s at stare. “I’m sorry for the delay,” Demi said, aiming for a con dent, assured tone. “The bridge was noisy and our conference room is undergoing renovation, so it

made sense to take the call in my quarters, where I’ll actually be able to hear

you.” Her hand went up to activate holographic charts and tables in front of her. “How bad is the failure?” Krishna waved away Demi’s apology, her focus

shifting as the synchronized charts appeared on her end, tinting her brown skin

and thick black hair with glowing blue. “I haven’t had a chance to break it down with my chief engineer yet.” Demi

grabbed one holographic table labeled Photonic Decay Rate, then highlighted it

for the vice admiral to see. “We’ve encountered this problem in simulations

during stage four of the jump cycle. The additional personnel didn’t put us over

the hump. Perhaps,” she said with strategic purpose, “they need more time to

work together.”

Krishna paused brie y at Demi’s statement, then settled into her seat. “I see. Captain, did you not fully understand GCF Command’s perspective?”

“I did.” Demi bit down on her lip, considering the paths in front of her. None were ideal, but she had nothing left to lose. This failed test likely meant

being called to the front and the end of the Horizon as they knew it. “Admiral,

permission to speak freely?”

“Of course.”

Demi thought of the crew transfers like Diaz and their rehearsed speeches—

now she red up something similarly prepared, though with far heavier

consequences. “Vice Admiral, I think using the Horizon for the war e ort is shortsighted. It’s the most unique scienti c ship in the eet—perhaps even in the galaxy. New

engineers and science teams barely onboarded. Another test or multiple tests,

with time for this new team to come together, that would put them in a position

to succeed. Why waste them as just another support craft?”

It wasn’t technically a waste. Demi understood why they wanted the Horizon

—presumably both the ship and its crew. Tallied against their failed scienti c

endeavors, Command’s perspective made sense. But they couldn’t be the only

science vessel away from the front—and it grated on Demi’s nerves that they

assumed the Horizon and its crew were just numbers, bodies to serve the war. Which they weren’t. Demi thought back to those nal weeks in the gravity

well, photonic volatility causing energy to thrash out in bursts and implode ships

in their community. The storms proved unpredictable, and Lumersian scientists

saw this as evidence of imminent collapse. Demi had stood on the bridge with

Chuck, repeatedly calculating possibilities and risks over sending rescue teams. Demi had made the call to go. She’d sent three crew members: Cam Flinders, a

Dywen named Siedt, and Aurora Sterling. Only Aurora survived. Demi sent Cam and Siedt to their deaths. Did it matter that it was in service

to community and life?

She still wasn’t sure. But several weeks after the Horizon

landed in Cluster space, Demi organized wakes for each of them. For the

survivors, their faces said it all: they’d traded one war zone for another, and that

epiphany pushed aside any lingering thoughts of retirement. The crew needed

more time. Just like now. “Captain, your test failed. Even your simulations failed. You’ve had chances,”

Krishna said, tapping her desk to accent her point. “I’ve read Commander

Matthews’s analysis. We need to bring the Horizon into the fold.”

Right when Matthews arrived on the ship, he told Demi not to upgrade any

equipment. And even in his analysis, he often asked about original systems and

hardware age. The ship was a decade-old craft that barely ran—how did that

warrant a take like “We need to bring the Horizon into the fold”?

None of this made sense. Really, nothing about the Cluster itself made sense

these days, but especially since Ark Getru. Demi chose her next words carefully,

swiping away the holographic data to make eye contact with Krishna. “The

engine’s very nature is a blessing and a curse. It’s powerful and, at times,

unknowable. Lumersian scientists helped us understand the intricacies of

photonic energy, but they’re not around. We can’t snap our ngers and make it

work. Not without reopening the collapsed well.” Her gaze brie y drifted over

to the purple spark in the corner of her quarters. “Reopen it and bring things

back the way they used to be. But this crew—my crew—they have experience no

one else can replicate. We are learning and we’ve made progress. Once we unlock

its basic principles, it could be the foundation for new discoveries. They just

need more time to come together. Whenever this war ends, the galaxy will move

on. My job, the Horizon’s job, is to support that life. Let us start now.”

Krishna didn’t respond, remaining still enough that Demi checked to see the

transmission didn’t freeze. “Our focus is the ship and the crew. Not the engine,” she nally said. Demi considered launching into some impassioned, very Grant-like speech

about discoveries and the possibilities of the photonic engine if they just invested

in it. That wouldn’t work here. She’d been back long enough to recognize that. Instead, she retorted with the question that had plagued her since that rst

conversation with Matthews: “Why is the Horizon so important?”

“Every ship is—”

“It’s an old ship.” Ten years ago, Demi would have never dared to speak to

top brass that way. Such words invited immediate reprimands. Still, she felt like

she’d earned the right to circumvent protocol. “This doesn’t make sense,” she said, repeating her epiphany from a moment ago before daring to add more. “I

think I deserve to know why.”

Krishna squinted, and Demi gured she might get relieved of duty then and

there, or even discharged from the eet entirely. Her mind wondered what that

might mean, and the idea of a cabin with Indy among her native California

redwoods didn’t seem that bad, despite spending her entire childhood trying to

reach the stars. But she had responsibilities to seventeen people. And if she held

her ground long enough, maybe they could outrun the war altogether. “I can’t discuss that.”

“What?” Demi’s reply came out in a single dry word. “The war’s going so

badly that you need a ten-year-old ship with a broken experimental engine?

I

mean, if that’s the case, at least be honest. I’ve seen your headlines: Ark Getru’s

an Accident. Systems Are Joining the Cluster. The WM’s Rumored FTL Tech

Is All False—”

“Captain.” The word was sharp, forceful, and Demi gave herself points for

rattling a vice admiral. “I. Can. Not. Discuss. That.” Krishna let out a heavy

sigh. “Matthews warned me you might not be happy. But regardless of your

feelings, the Horizon is needed, and its directive will be reclassi ed.”

Frustration ripped through Demi. “If things are that bad, has the negotiating

team tried the radical tactic of, you know, offering something instead of

insulting?”

“Captain Kim.” Calm neutrality slipped over Krishna’s face, like she’d

slammed an internal reset button. “Even though you were not here for the onset

of the con ict, you are still involved. You are a captain in the Galactic Cluster’s

eet. You cannot run away from that, nor can you be in denial. The Horizon has

two days to perform nal analysis of the failed test, then you’re to report to Base

Theta Seven to prep the Horizon for frontline support. And at Theta Seven,

you’ll be relieved of command and receive your new assignment.”

Krishna’s words seemed to oat in space. Demi didn’t react right away. Instead, she thought of the time she’d joked to Grant about all the ways she

might lose her command. She’d gotten her ship and crew lost in space, after all. Yet she’d never believed it would happen. The Horizon was as outcast as any

crew in the history of FTL travel, space exploration, ocean exploration, land pioneers. No one could actually want them or their damage. At least, that’s what

she’d told herself. And now she was going to lose everything. Not because she talked back to Command. Not because she didn’t play nice

with Matthews. Because of this war. Their war. Disbelief. Grief. Bargaining. Demi had learned enough about human

psychology to know that those should have been the emotions stirring inside her. Maybe they stewed in there, little bits waiting to emerge, but right now

everything was completely and absolutely eclipsed by a very sudden, very

incandescent rage. It presented, though, in a short, calculated reply. “Admiral, the Horizon crew needs me. No one in the eet can understand

what they’ve been through.”

“Those aren’t discussions for me. They’ve had their psych evals. Additional

ones are available as warranted.”

Krishna’s words came out fast and clean, like she’d just commissioned a new

fuel depot rather than shattered everything around Demi. Demi forced a

response out even as her mind raced elsewhere. “What’s my new assignment?”

“That’s not under my purview. You’ll learn more when you get to Theta

Seven.” The admiral glanced o camera, nodding at something. “For now,

prepare a transition plan for the Horizon’s new captain. You can brief Matthews

on it in the meantime.” A chime came from Krishna’s side, stealing the

conversation from the sudden questions prompted by that statement. “Matthews?”

“Yes. He’ll be acting captain until we assign a permanent one. Or unless he

stays.” Demi wasn’t surprised by any behind-the-scenes activity these days. But

for Matthews to actually take over her command?

She glanced over at Indy, who sensed the movement enough to open sleepy

eyes and look back. Well, at least someone in the Cluster liked her. “We’ll see if he earns a promotion,” Krishna continued. “War moves things in

unexpected ways. Learn to deal with it. That’s an order, Kim.”

The screen went dark, leaving only dim overhead lighting and the glowing

font of her monitor’s default display. And, of course, Chuck. Demi walked barefoot across the carpeted space, having ditched the standard-

issue boots as soon as she got into her quarters. “Transmission: Kim to

Connors,” she said into her comm as she touched Chuck’s containment unit,

the uneven metal ridges of its frame digging into the meat of her palm. “Connors here.”

Demi operated for almost two years without a rst o cer after Grant was

killed in a dispute between angered colony factions. They didn’t have the means,

so she simply got used to it—less structure for the rest of the crew, and more

leniency to herself. None of that was Connors’s fault. If the situation were reversed, maybe she’d

still be the by-the-book person who kept standard-issue boots on at all times. “I’ve signed o with Vice Admiral Krishna. Unless there’s an emergency, I’ll be

back up on the bridge in an hour.”

“No emergencies here. Take your time. Connors out.”

The comm system beeped, and Demi crumbled to the oor. Next to her,

Indy’s deep-sleep breathing quickened, and she looked down to see big brown

eyes emerge among the graying muzzle of the dog’s long face. As if Indy knew

the weight of her thoughts, the dog adjusted without getting up, just enough to

rest her head across Demi’s lap. Indy seemed to love naps on a soft bed more

than any other creature in the galaxy, a life far removed from her time in a grimy,

dank kennel connected to a racecourse. Quite a life, being able to relax anywhere. Indy fell asleep again, the cadence

of her breathing steady and deep, a meditation of sorts for Demi as she watched

Chuck’s remains, eyes trained on the lone purple spark. She leaned over to a

small refrigerator adjacent to her and grabbed a bottle of some kind of chilled

wine. The details were lost to time, Demi having been the third or fourth owner

of it. A refugee from a collapsing nearby ship in the well gave it to her in

gratitude, stating to only have some for special occasions. Now seemed like a good time to sample it. She took a small glass o the top

compartment and poured enough for something between a sip and a shot. “You

remember the last time we had this?” she said to Chuck. “Low on optimism.”

Two years ago, speci cally, in this very same spot, back when Chuck had a

glowing photonic body, mechanical limbs, and a digitized voice. Most importantly, though, he had his mind. Like now, she had sat cross-legged and barefoot, while Chuck stood, his alloy-

composite legs hinged to mimic thin bipedal feet and knees. Above that, the

operating mechanics and computer processing of the robot body sat encased

below his true self:

A swirling plane of bright pink glow, compressed down into a two-

dimensional square about two feet on each side; back then, his light was bright

enough to cast a tint across the entire room. How the containment unit

managed to interface with Lumersian physiology—was that even a thing?—

Demi didn’t know; she left that to cybernetics experts. But it translated his voice

into a soothing tone, one that evolved from an initial monotone. Servos whirred as Chuck’s left arm raised a glass of this chilled wine. “A

toast,” he suggested, “as long as I’m understanding the meaning of the ritual

correctly.”

“A toast is celebratory. I thought we were just sampling because things are

bad,” Demi said with a laugh. “Sampling” was relative; while Chuck absorbed

many details to bring him closer to humanity—including his name—eating and

drinking remained impossible. But she appreciated his commitment to the

gesture. Plus, more for her. “This seems like an odd time to celebrate.”

“Why do you say that?” Chuck asked, glass still up. Demi refrained from taking a sip, just in case Chuck had a point with this. “Well, let me see. The Carbarran group raided our supplies. That wasn’t great. They’re also our neighbors, so that’s not great either. Less supplies on the

Horizon means more crankiness. You like math, you can calculate the inverse

relationship of those two.” Though Chuck didn’t have a head, his entire torso

dipped in a move as close to a nod as possible, the green status light on the

bottom left slicing through the dark. “Let’s extrapolate that. Carbarrans raided

our supplies because they’re desperate. They’re desperate because the well is collapsing and we have no way out of it. We’ll implode in a year or two like that

one ship did last week. See, we’re a little low on optimism.”

“Optimism,” he said after a pause, and his vocabulator projected a laugh. Though the tech did wonders in terms of functional translation and even

capturing the nuances of emotion, laughter still came out like a replicated

simulation. “Oh, and one last thing. You’re here,” she said, red wine sloshing as she

pointed at him, glass still in hand, “to help us gure that escape out. But also,

your own kind are confused by you grabbing an identity and discovering things

like feelings instead of just disintegrating back into your big cloud of collective

photons.” Now she held up her glass, steady, matching his pose. “See?

Low on

optimism.”

“Let me perform an analysis on this.”

“This is why I love you; everything’s a puzzle to be solved. I’m going to have a

sip, though.” She raised the glass to her lips, but just before the wine hit them,

Chuck held up his free hand. “Carbarrans are desperate because the well is unstable. Fixing that instability

requires some way to harness photonic energy in physical space. That uses a

combination of Lumersian science and your realm’s science. Us Lumersians use

these mech suits to allow for direct collaboration. Which led to our direct

collaboration. Which led to me choosing to stay integrated in my mech suit. Because, while Lumersians exist for a nite span to ful ll a purpose, I have

discovered mine was di erent than originally planned. My purpose is to be here

with you.” Chuck’s glass raised an inch higher, and Demi swore the pink glow of

his cube intensi ed. “As long as you will have me. Everything else that happened

before or comes after is incidental. So, I am not low on optimism.”

“You should have been a speechwriter,” Demi said in a quiet voice. “If Grant

were still here, he’d be impressed.”

“There is no need. This is all straightforward mathematics.”

“Right.” Demi nodded. “One plus one equals two.”

“Everything in the known universe ultimately comes down to that.”

In that moment, somehow all her senses dialed up—the feel of the carpet

beneath her toes, the blow of ventilation through her hair, the low hum of Chuck’s inner instruments, the ever-present rumble of the Horizon’s thrusters

as they strained to hold the ship steady against the pull of the well’s superhot

core. And Chuck. The glow of his true self, the slightest variations across the

spectrum of neon pinks, boldly coloring everything in her life. “So,” Chuck nally said, “a toast.”

They clinked glasses, and Demi took her sip, while Chuck did the ceremonial

action of pouring his back into the bottle. That plane of bright energy—so vibrant, so alive—now a dim purple dot. Demi’s head tilted back, closing her eyes to lean into the silence. “I could use

some of your optimism now. What would your math tell you?”

Demi felt Indy jolt, a whole-body tremble followed by an eyes-closed

whimper. Her dog was dreaming. Maybe she had the right idea. Demi could feel

the weight of the world settling on her shoulders. “Shhh, it’s okay, girl,” Demi said, petting Indy’s soft ears before turning back

to the spark. “Okay, I mean, I have a dog now, so it’s not all bad. But still. You

know what—”

She stopped, then blinked several times to make sure her eyes were not

playing tricks on her. She squinted, forcing her vision to adjust and con rm that

yes, a green light suddenly glowed on the bottom left of the containment unit’s

frame. Was the unit active?

It couldn’t be. And yet, there was a clear di erence between now and before. The light hadn’t been on; she would have noticed that green dot sometime

within the last six months. She was certain. Demi inspected the unit’s interface module and small maintenance panel, the

green dot indicating that something in the cubic mess of technology worked. As she leaned closer, a high-pitched squeal came, a series of tones at di erent

pitches and intervals—all sharp enough to unsettle Indy. The dog craned her

neck upward, one oppy ear perched up quizzically at the noise. Then a synthesized voice spoke, a tone that Demi had last heard six months

ago when Chuck entered the photonic engine to power the nal steps of the Horizon’s journey back to Cluster space:

“Home.”

CHAPTER 9

TANAV

Shortly after arriving in Cluster space, Demi told Tanav that she understood his

goal: nd a way to return to his universe. “A way has to exist. We just have to

discover it.” She’d joked that “if I ever send you an urgent transmission out of

nowhere, I found your way home.” Every time Neera completed a test, Demi let

him know whether it succeeded or failed. She left out the technical stu , but

he’d always gotten a sense about whether the engine was closer to working—or

not. Since the failed jump at Gamma Twenty-One, Demi didn’t say anything. Much bigger things were at stake than his own quest to go home. So Demi

staying quiet about that wasn’t an issue. The fact that she seemed to cut herself

o from everyone…

That was concerning. When she wasn’t on the bridge, she locked herself away in her quarters. Tanav had reached out to Demi twice in the last day. He didn’t want to pry into

issues of Command—he wasn’t quali ed to understand them. However, he did

fully understand when things failed and authority gures weren’t happy. His

whole life had been kind of built around that. Except Demi didn’t answer and Tanav knew her well enough to wait. In one

short day, rumors rippled through the ship, whispers of heading to the front or

the science lab being turned into weapons research or even the crew being

dispersed and the Horizon being commandeered. Ensign Diaz even mentioned a rumored black ops group possibly using the photonic engine for military

purposes. GCF culture was still new to Tanav, but even Lynn laughed at that one. “All

the new grads fall for that,” she’d said. “Then they start their rotations and

realize how ridiculous that is.”

Those rumors all circled around the ship or the crew—not Demi. And that,

along with her self-sequestering, really worried Tanav. So when she reached out

with an urgent, out-of-nowhere transmission to come to her quarters?

She didn’t say why. And the only thing he was certain of was that it had

nothing to do with nding a way home. But given how everything right now

was military or science, why would she need someone like him?

That thought pushed him as he walked quickly through the crew quarter

hallways of the Horizon’s fourth deck, politely sliding between the middle of

shift changes until he reached the elevator. He wasn’t alone, though; Aurora

stared at an engineering tablet while she waited. The display glowed with all sorts

of green graphs and charts, which re ected o the green already in her hair. But

then the device shut o , and Tanav caught that the green in her hair had actually

faded a little bit, dulling it toward her natural brunette. For years in the well, Aurora used hair dyes from vegetables and other natural

sources. Getting back to Cluster space meant deliveries of modern supplies,

including her special request of a hair color infuser. Yet here, either the infuser

broke or…

Or she hadn’t made a choice about her future. Or perhaps she did. Tanav’s upbringing recognized the next step in a conversation as a piece of

strategy instead of mere discussion. Even when he wanted to, he couldn’t turn

that o , which meant his playful tone was equally genuine and calculated. He kind of hated that about himself. “You’re not hiding any peppers are you?” he asked with a wave. A targeted

question that gave the option of letting her open up or keep things hidden. “Sorry.” She patted her uniform pockets. “All out. Have to commit treason to

get some more. Oh wait, are we allowed to talk about that?

Or not?

It’s so hard to keep track these days.” Venom laced her voice, though Tanav didn’t know at

whom. In her position, her anger could be targeted at anyone. “Demi will help you—”

“I haven’t talked to her,” she said. “No one has, if you haven’t noticed. The

engine. Commander Matthews. Environmental accidents. New crew. Guess

we’re all busy.” As if on cue, several new crew members lined up behind them

for the elevator. She gestured to take a step back, and while the elevator saw an

exchange of incoming and outgoing unfamiliar people, they waited for everyone

to clear before resuming. Despite her posture and tone, Tanav recognized that Aurora’s anger was a

front more than anything else. Her next words came low and quick, with a

surprising softness. “I know it’s not really Demi’s fault. I shouldn’t blame her. I

don’t even really want to go. I just have to. You know, crossing over there”—her

words came with cryptic meaning and a knowing nod—“means I can’t come

back until this is over. And when will that be?

These new transfers have all the

gossip. They say none of the negotiating is real, and the war’s just at a standstill,

Ark Getru is just a symptom. Why are we even doing this?

No one has a good

answer.”

Tanav shook his head—he didn’t have an answer either. He didn’t want to

think about it more because that just pulled ashes of Ark Getru, and the way

the bodies had oated so unnaturally into nothing…

“I should try giving all the leaders some of my family peppers,” she said. Her

eyes brightened in response, a quip against the backdrop of horror. Maybe that

horror felt more real to him because it was so otherworldly. For Aurora, her jokes

might have come from the way the war wove deep into every one of her

decisions. Inside the gravity well, there were moments when the crew talked about how

they’d give anything to see friends again, to smell natural owers and plants

again, to swim in an ocean again. Yet now, things almost seemed better over

there. It was at least clear—no worry about politics or new transfers or messages

from family to muddy up where to go, what to do, how to feel. The elevator doors opened again, except this time it arrived empty. Demi

waited with something she’d deemed urgent, but Tanav chose to make sure Aurora didn’t need an extra second of camaraderie rst. She stepped in, and he

followed suit. “Deck three,” she said, putting her at engineering. “Deck one,” he said, and she shot him a knowing look. “Do you want me to

—”

“It’s my responsibility. I’ll talk to her. I owe her that,” she said. The doors

opened at the engineering deck, and she took a step out. “But thanks for asking. Complimentary peppers if I ever get them back to Cluster space.”

Demi wasn’t even there when Tanav arrived, apparently pulled into an o -shift

resources meeting with Matthews. Instead, the doors to the captain’s quarters

opened to reveal Neera, diagnostic tools and connection cables in his oversize

hands. He hunched over, midway through scanning a metal frame. A metal containment unit that held Chuck’s spark and, at one time, sat in the

heart of Chuck’s mech suit. Now it might as well have been his urn, with his

lone remaining purple spark oating in the middle of it. So why was Neera scanning it?

Then noises arrived—a high-pitched frequency, clearly generated through the

containment unit’s speaker module. And a single word:

“Home.”

While Neera looked to Chuck as a living wealth of scienti c information and

Demi had her own unique attachment to him, hearing that single word conjured

up a rapid- re set of memories: What is culture?

and Why is this culture so

different from yours?

and What makes music so pleasing to the senses?

So many

o -duty hours spent crammed into Lynn’s small quarters next to Chuck’s

standing mech suit as she played song after song from her catalog of historical

rock songs. “We are tasked,” Neera said as Tanav stepped in, “to nd out, as Demi put it,

if her boyfriend is back from the dead. However, scans are continuing to present

readings that are… confusing.”

Tanav realized that they just jumped into this without even saying hello. Lynn kept telling Tanav that Neera was very nice and very caring in his own way,

but Neera’s technical nature and Tanav’s very-much-the-opposite life experience

meant that they’d never gotten past polite interactions. Even being here felt

strange, like a quiz he was destined to fail. The unit in Neera’s hand chimed,

prompting him to put it down and change it for another from his equipment

bag. “How so?”

“The energy levels from Chuck’s spark remain the same as they have emitted

since the last scan. No noticeable change has been detected within the actual

photonic state.” Tanav nodded like he understood, which prompted Neera to

continue while bringing up holographic numbers from his scanner. “The

di erence appears to be hardware based. Active detection is what the readings

show.”

Tanav wanted to ask Neera if Demi was all right, if she’d dealt with the crew’s

next steps yet. He’d even considered using the moment to ask how Neera felt

about Ark Getru and the ensuing fallout. In front of him, Neera moved with a

singular purpose, scanning and analyzing and repeating that over again. Tanav chose to leave it and not detour Neera’s work. “I’m, um,” he started, before he found the best way to convey this given how

Neera missed subtleties in communication. His next step needed to be direct, for

both of their sakes. “I’m not sure why Demi called me. I’m not exactly good

with scanners.”

Before Neera could respond, the high-pitched noise returned. Tanav closed

his eyes and focused on the noise: an electronic screeching that varied in pitch

and intensity, speeding up and slowing down, even pausing for skips before the

vocabulator plainly stated the word home again. Several more short bursts

arrived before everything abruptly ended, leaving only the chimes of equipment. “I have become accustomed to this noise with each passing playback,” Neera

said. “The starts and stops appear to drive a power current spike that cannot be

replicated. A timer has been set to check for regular transmission intervals. But

for now”—he tapped his tablet, and the noise played back from the device, not

Chuck—“the raw audio has been captured by my scanner. You have asked about your purpose here. Demi recalled your discussions with Chuck about the nature

of audio variations in frequency and rhythm.”

It took Tanav a second to realize that Neera gave a de nition of music—

nearly the same way Chuck had described it. The rst time Chuck heard a

passing crew member whistling in the docking bay, he’d stopped and asked for

an explanation—and after hearing several songs, Chuck had proclaimed, “It is a

con uence of mathematics, dynamics, emotion, and language, in in nite

combinations.”

Was that what made up this screeching sound?

“Demi wants you to consider if this recording matches any possible songs

that Chuck may have heard. Though I have thought of another reason.” Neera

let out a Dywen version of a laugh, an alien-like chortling that sounded more

like asthmatic grunts. It even made Chuck’s synthesized laughter sound human. “Can you learn how Demi’s dog has managed to remain asleep during all of

this?”

Lynn mentioned that Neera had been attempting humor more, to which

Tanav responded that not even humans always got it. Here, Tanav reminded

himself to laugh, which in itself changed Neera’s demeanor in subtle ways,

despite the strange and almost grim circumstances. Dywens telling jokes, dead Lumersians humming songs, and so many new

crew members—things were changing aboard the Horizon. Several years ago, Demi pulled Tanav onto the bridge to get his opinion on a

strange message. He’d only arrived shortly before but had his role quickly

de ned, the constant in ux of new faces needing someone to listen to their

various needs and demands. With twenty-two ships stuck in the gravity well,

he’d told Demi a saying from his universe: “Broken links can’t form a chain.”

Dywens spoke with deference to authority and hierarchy. Maltrotish stated their

requests rst, then o ered reasoning behind it. Humans, regardless of universe,

seemed to operate more on emotion than anything else. Despite those di erent backgrounds, Tanav was able to recognize how those

traits wove into communications. Demi attributed this to his background as a

musician, like the arts magically made him more attuned to emotional

conditions. But actually, it was his parents. Sure, they were his parents, but Nova and

Rolf were head of Lexin Industries rst and foremost. And they’d modeled for

him early on that every culture and every individual, no matter species or age or

gender, had a tell. They used that to exploit industries and companies. Tanav used it for endless lyrical fodder. And on the Horizon, he used it to connect strangers across stranded ships. Demi had asked if such intuition could gure out some meaning in those

ashing lights amid the endless glow of the gravity well. They repeated, one ash

and then another ash, then two rapid ashes. “Is it biological, like a heartbeat?” Demi mused, standing in front of the

captain’s chair with hands clasped behind her back. “Or perhaps a vibrational

frequency?”

“There may be a species attempting to manipulate photonic energy,” Neera

said. He held up a tablet that projected out a hologram of data. “This species

may be using a device giving o those ashes as a natural operating frequency. The ashes may be a byproduct rather than directly signaling intent.”

They watched again as the ashes came, and for this next round, Tanav

tapped his nger against his hip, and despite being very mediocre at drums, the

move stemmed from a lifelong instinct to connect with beats. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. The timing of it was precise, like the click track to a song demo. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. He repeated this, his ngers moving at the same cadence even though

they sped ahead of the ashing phenomena, and it repeated even while Neera

and Demi discussed what kinds of devices might possibly cause photonic energy

to ash. Then it hit him. Tanav blurted out the next few words without even really

thinking it through. “Beats. Like a beat calculator.”

Everyone on the bridge turned and faced him—Lynn at her comm station,

Lindsay lling in at helm, Siedt, a Dywen, at the data table, Demi and Neera in

front of him. “Sorry,” he continued, “it’s called a metronome here. Click, click, click, to

keep the beat. These beats,” he said, holding up a nger, “are precise. A quarter

note, a quarter note, two eighths. They’re exact. I bet if you look at a recording

of these, the timestamps would be exact.”

“The ashes are con rmed to be that precise,” Neera said as he stared at the

tablet. “Try this.” Tanav pointed at the bridge’s window. “Flash a signal back. Two,

then two, then four.”

Demi looked out at the glowing expanse, then back at Tanav, then over to

Lindsay. “Concentrate low-energy weapons bursts to do that, as even in pauses

as possible.”

“Mathematics,” Neera said. “I see it.” Demi stepped between the front consoles, moving as close to the

window as possible. “One plus one equals two. Two plus two equals four. The

most basic logic in the universe—in any universe. Tanav.” She spun on her heel

and looked directly at him. “When we get you home, you can tell your parents

that all of that music paid o after all.”

And now that intuition paid o again. Almost. When Demi returned to her quarters an hour later, she lacked the awe and

curiosity of their moment back in the gravity well. Instead, her posture collapsed

as soon as she entered her quarters, like all the adherence to order and rules had

knotted in an invisible string. Indy stretched and yawned, except instead of

going to her, the dog waddled her way over to Neera. She shoved her long snout

in Neera’s face, which prompted a pained but polite expression, followed by two

very mechanical pats on the head. Tanav knew he had an opportunity to ask Demi if she was all right. But given

the late hour and her long day, he went with more urgent matters. “It’s not

Chuck,” he blurted out, causing her shoulders to drop further. “I’m sorry, I

know that’s not what you wanted to hear. I thought I should put it up front.”

Neera tapped the scanner in his hand and out shot a holographic projection

showing a schematic of the containment unit, various circuit paths lit up, and a

star chart. “The unit’s capabilities have been usurped.” Demi crossed her arms at

this, and her grave silence played so di erently than the woman who quipped her way through life in a gravity well. “We know the Lumersians can identify

convergence points. Being at one puts us in signal range with them. The

evidence leads us to believe that the containment unit is doubling as a

transmitter.”

Tanav met Demi’s eyes, the same way she did on the bridge years ago. Unlike

before, all he caught was fatigue. “That’s why it sounded like him,” he said. “It’s

a message played through his body.”

“The vocabulator was calibrated for accumulated knowledge. Home was the

only word that became cleanly translated upon receipt,” Neera said. “The rest of

the translation is being worked on by Tanav.”

“This timing,” she said slowly, “is di cult.” Indy nally broke from Neera,

and Demi knelt down to meet her. Tanav watched as her gaze drifted out the

large domed window, even as she rubbed the dog’s ears. Everyone hesitated. Tanav took that as an opportunity. “Demi,” he started,

“are you all right?

Given everything?”

The question got Neera to freeze. Demi’s shoulders rose and fell with several

long breaths. “I can’t think about that.” Under her words, Tanav heard the

faintest crackle, though it disappeared swiftly as she continued. “How much

have you translated?”

She wasn’t budging, and maybe that was the only way to keep things together

against the failed test, the new crew, Command, and whatever this was. “Some

of the important parts. I think.” He handed a tablet over. “These are my notes. I’ve assigned a tone and length as a value and checked it against our archive of

Lumersian communication, and Neera’s been tweaking the vocabulator to adapt

to it.”

Neera nodded in agreement, and Tanav stood quiet, waiting for Demi’s

reaction. She held the tablet close, her eyes tracking from left to right, the glow from

the tablet casting a blue tint against her cheeks. “ ‘Photonic energy… will face

eventual collapse… return home,’ ” she read aloud. “This is a distress call.”

Tanav glanced at Neera, but the Dywen didn’t react. Which might have

meant that he agreed. Most of Demi’s face stayed absolutely still, but the glint in

her eyes changed in ways that he’d rarely noticed. “I have to make a choice,” she nally said. “And fast.” She handed the tablet

back to Tanav and walked to the corner of the space, eyes turned up through the

glass dome. “I’m being transferred o the Horizon,” she said atly. Tanav glanced at Neera again, whose mouth dropped open and dark eyes

grew deeper. That meant that Neera believed her. Which was bad for all of them. “I need to talk to Krishna,” she said quietly. “They have to hear me out.”

Demi’s next step was clear—she needed space to think and to steal a moment

with high-ranking o cials. Tanav couldn’t talk politics with Command or do a

single thing about Ark Getru, but he could help her right now. “I’ll keep

working on this. Lynn’s shift is almost done. She can help.”

“This is a good point by Tanav,” Neera said, picking up on this. “I will

transfer appropriate data to stations in the science lab and Tanav’s quarters.” He

tapped away at several displays, which then chirped with successful actions. Neera stepped to leave, then turned around to give Indy one last pet before

exiting the room. Tanav was on his way out when Demi interrupted him. “You asked if I’m all

right. I don’t have an answer for you,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”

CHAPTER 10

NEERA

Under the Regent Empire, roles came clearly de ned and orders were followed. Dissent was quickly squashed, confusion rarely occurred, and things never, ever

changed. Neera realized the odd comfort in that. Despite the constant sense of threat,

he always knew what would happen the next day. Compared to right now, as he

contemplated a Horizon without Demora Kim. Someone else would be in charge. Someone who perhaps didn’t understand

where everyone came from, how the Horizon got there. They might even ship

the Horizon’s crew o to di erent ships. They might even have to ght a war. The irony was that while so many on the Horizon fretted about so many

things upon arriving in Cluster space, Neera found himself probably with the

most centered sense of peace in his life. He just wanted to build and test things. These last few months on the Horizon may have been the only time in his life

when he got to do just that. And now, governments were trying to take that away. Galactic Cluster. Withdrawal Movement. Regent Empire. Was there actually

much of a di erence for someone like him?

Neera sat in engineering despite being o duty, every possible display with a

di erent facet of test data. It was technically the late shift, and while three new

transfers were supposed to be there, they were assigned to training sessions elsewhere at this time. And really, the time in the gravity well showed that

engineering usually moved along smoothly even when no one was in it. If he were human, he probably would have been in bed. But the Dywen

circadian rhythm only needed four hours of rest a day when well hydrated, even

when adapted to the Horizon’s human-centric, twenty-four-hour cycle. Which

meant he had another few hours to ponder the mysteries of the photonic engine. The test data tempted him, but he’d given up reviewing it again. He turned

to the end table next to the main workstation, where four palm-size repair

projects sat in an open drawer: a pneumatic hammer with a broken recoil, a

drone remote with an inactive holographic display, a replacement hinge for a

chair axle in the med bay, and an automatic lter cleaner for Indy’s water dish. Sometimes he worked on one of these in between calibrations and tests. Other

times he sat during o -hours, xing one little piece of the ship at a time. Yet now

he couldn’t even focus on one. He tried, picking up the lter cleaner and

examining it up close. Something wasn’t swiping the debris away, which

probably meant a busted actuator inside. His mind froze there, though, pulling

in quick thoughts of the worst possibilities until his mind went the opposite

way, a panic-induced list of ways that might get them out of this situation. Sending a message back. Building a miniature version of the engine. Ignoring

Command and testing the engine again—and again and again until it worked. If Demi just said the word, Neera would do it. He told himself he could even

do prep work for it now, and to prove it, he grabbed a tablet and accessed

Sadler’s most recent research analysis. It loaded, and he blinked when he saw an unexpected message from an hour

ago. Neera just forgot to check, given everything falling apart:

I looked at the test jump data. Too bad I’m stuck halfway across the galaxy because

I actually have an idea. It would need real-time tweaking of the generator as it

processes the energy conversion. I think our problem is that we’re treating

calibration as a sinusoidal oscillation, when it in fact it has varying shifts depending

on environmental state. Got a way of plugging me in?

Neera was senior enough to grant remote access—but that bypassed several

layers of encryption security. No way to get that approved with photonic engine research getting shut down, unless Demi authorized it. Chains of command

existed for a reason. However, his chain of command was getting broken apart. Or at least it

would unless something intervened. He could at least listen to Sadler’s thinking. “This better be good, I just fell asleep,” Sadler said in a muted voice as he

answered the transmission. “Apologies should be made for the hour of this communication. Your

message was just read. Your ability to learn so much so quickly about the

photonic engine is very impressive.”

“I pity anyone who doesn’t want to think about the photonic engine all the

time.” Sadler laughed, and as he did, he activated his video feed to put them face-

to-face. On the screen, the transmission froze, pieces of Sadler’s image coming in

from top to bottom: rst his thick brown hair, then the tired lines that framed

blue eyes and combat-tanned cheeks, then the stubble of dark hair over his long

chin. “So, you got a way to make it happen?

You’re right there. Plug me in.”

“Your goals are in direct violation of Cluster protocol.”

“You didn’t call me right now just to shame me for wanting to bend the

rules?” Sadler said, with a very telling glance at his pillow. “Perhaps your ideas should be communicated for me to consider.” Sadler

wiped his tired face, though when he nished, he revealed a smirk. “A way may

exist to make it work.”

“It’s simple: let’s tell Command how important this project is so they let us

do it. Or they y me out there. I mean, they’re cutting o research; you’d think

they’d try one more time with the right people.”

Sadler apparently wanted to complain more than solve problems. Neera was

about to reply when a new realization dawned on him:

“How did you know Command wanted to shut down the project?”

Sadler’s chuckle came clear across the monitor. “My friend, you mean you

don’t know?” He wiped the sleep out of his eyes, then stretched back for a long,

possibly exaggerated yawn. “Anyone who’s studied the engine has heard about

this. Both directly and indirectly. That’s why I sent a message tonight. Let’s

prove to them that this works before we lose everything.”

Neera thought of the conversations he’d overheard around the ship—beyond

unauthorized discussions of Ark Getru, other rumors oated about the war,

combat metrics, and political motivations. “The speed of word traveling among

humans remains surprising to me.”

“ ‘Word traveling,’ ” Sadler said. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Hey, you’re

the rst to see but the last to know. That’s what happens when you’re o doing

science projects while I’m calibrating bomb chemistry.” He made a poof sound

and gestured his hands into a mock explosion. “We should ask. Except

bureaucracy would take two months just to respond. Good thing we don’t need

it for anything pressing, right?

By the way, the displays behind you look already

loaded with test data.”

Anything pressing. Neera’s mind hung on that thought, and Sadler’s head angled at his sudden

silence. “Either you’re thinking of something important or you’re thinking

about your table projects. If it’s the latter, I’m going back to bed.”

Unless something changed, the engine was likely gone. Demi was likely gone. Neera’s entire life of just xing and testing things was likely gone, replaced by

being the only Dywen in a war involving governments he barely understood. The Horizon and its crew, he understood that—disjointed, sometimes messy,

and certainly lacking protocol, but stable, supportive, and known. Even with the

new transfers that arrived, he could adapt to that as long as his foundations

remained. A new captain. A new ship. A new war?

That foundation would crumble. The orderly part of Neera touted the need of the Lumersians—their situation

sounded catastrophic, and they deserved support. But deep down, Neera

understood that taking action right here meant giving this life on the Horizon a

nal chance. “There is something new regarding our situation,” Neera blurted

out. Such a strange feeling, making such a big leap on his own. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

But really, this wasn’t on his own. Demi once told Neera that part of

leadership was knowing when to bend or break the rules. She’d been referring to

her romantic entanglement with Chuck, but such a notion applied broadly. This marked one of those moments. Much like the decision to vent the engine,

options were very limited at this point. “A situation has arisen that requires the photonic engine.” Di erent

explanations weighed in his mind, but he opted for the most direct. “This news

was sent directly from the Lumersians.”

“From the… how?” Sadler’s eyes sharpened, the fatigue vanishing suddenly. Over the next few minutes, Neera explained the day’s theorizing and reverse

engineering, all leading to the partially decoded message about energy collapsing

—and the goal of returning something to them. “Historically, the well appears to

be volatile enough to risk photonic space, yet stable enough to exist in physical

space. I do not know what they need returned.”

“Right. Because the well acts as a conduit between both?” Sadler squinted, a

hand running through his hair. “Your escape used energy mined from the well. Yet it didn’t destabilize things worse.”

“Yes, but remember that the Lumersians both exist in photonic space while

also composing the very fabric of photonic space. It…” Neera’s voice trailed o ;

Lumersian physiology or lack thereof was something he didn’t come close to

understanding. “It remains confusing. The Lumersians knew how to parse out

their individual beings among their tapestry of existence. Chuck compared it to

an exothermic reaction producing steam in the physical world.”

“And?” Sadler asked. “There’s something else too.”

Neera occasionally let his emotions express. Sometimes to Demi. Sometimes

to Lynn, who was forward in her probing when she knew he was upset. Strangely, even though he’d detected her own anxieties recently, he found it

di cult to ask her in return. It was just easier to discuss science. Like with Sadler, that was their primary

topic of conversation. But right now, science and emotions intertwined. One

depended on the other. “Yes. I do not want to lose the life I have built on the Horizon.”

“Well then, we have something to prove to Command, don’t we?

New plan,”

Sadler said slowly. “As a friend, as a fellow scientist—forget the bureaucracy. Give me remote access. We can simulate with live equipment. If my theory

works, we have every reason to ask for another chance.” Sadler must have seen the hesitation on Neera’s face, because he leaned in closer to the camera. “Look,

we solve this, you present it to Captain Kim, she presents it to Command, the

Horizon doesn’t go to war, and instead you zoom o on a rescue mission. Right?

That was Command’s whole ultimatum.” Despite only talking over

video, Sadler’s presence carried a palpable weight, a gravity that drew Neera into

the logic of his argument. “Come on, Neera. We can do this.”

Neera’s hesitations about protocol and chain of command evaporated with

the strength of Sadler’s argument. He stood and stared at the displays of

numbers lling up his eld of vision, and despite the draining day, not a single

hint of fatigue a ected him. He tapped the nearest station to pull up the shift schedule. Leeds, Porter,

Hayase—the new transfers were due back soon. “I will not be alone in this

room.”

“Yeah, but Neera, you’re the chief engineer.” Sadler’s laugh was loud enough

to ll the space. “Sometimes I think you forget that. Just tell them you’re

running a simulation. Hell, they can help if you show them how.”

Neera looked at the data across displays now, the six stages of the photonic

engine’s cycle de ned in clear charts. And stage four, where the decay issue kept

showing up. A simulation was not breaking the rules. It was bending them, at worst. He

could do that. His life on the Horizon, with Demi, deserved that e ort. “I am swayed by your words.” Neera nodded at the monitor, nally matching

the intensity of his friend’s gaze. “How shall we begin?”

CHAPTER 11

TANAV

Tanav had stared at the distress call’s waveform for another hour by the time

Lynn got o her shift. Then they spent several hours staring at the waveform

together. It didn’t produce much, though, the translation matrix seemingly

stuck even as they fed in more and more archives—logs kept by Chuck, analyses

by other Lumersian scientists, transmission records with the collective species. The process did help in one regard, though: it kept Tanav from thinking

about Demi’s imminent departure. She’d entrusted him with this role of

Cultural Counselor for a reason. One night in the gravity well, Tanav joked that

he acted as the community spy, to which Demi gave him a very serious look and

said, “I need to keep things steady for everyone. And not everyone’s going to be

honest with me. But they like you, they trust you, and you have a gift for

understanding people. That is more valuable than any academy training could

ever provide. Especially here. You are their voice. And I need that.”

How would that even work if she left?

Tanav wasn’t loyal to the Cluster or

GCF Command. His loyalties were with Demi and this crew. Which meant that

a life without those, in this universe?

It took away all his options. And without the photonic engine, it also shut

down any possibility of him nding a way home, even with the Lumersians

reaching out. Home was both closer and more impossible than ever before. “We need a break,” Lynn said. “Human brains from any universe need a

pressure release.”

Tanav knew she was right. But he also knew that switching out of this mode

might bring new questions. Especially because he only talked about the distress

call and avoided the part about Demi’s departure. That wasn’t his to reveal. “We’ve gotta keep going.” He rubbed his eyes as he said this, signaling that his

body didn’t exactly agree with him. “That’s super academic of you.” She laughed, which shook him enough to

laugh too. “I know this is big. I know the Lumersians helped us, and we should

help them. But my brain can’t anymore. They’d understand if we took a break.”

She stood, tossing her long black curls as she yawned. “I’m going to the med bay. Meet me there if you want.”

Which was a really weird request. Ten minutes later, he showed up to nd her

holding an acoustic guitar of all things—a timeless, rich wood body with clean

metal strings and deep tones. As he arrived, she struggled for a smooth transition

between an A chord and an E chord, all while explaining that the med bay’s

shape had the Horizon’s best acoustics, and the guitar itself belonged to

Commander Connors, who apparently brought it when he arrived. “There,” she said, one strum in A and then another in E. “Look at that. You

need three chords to write a song, right?

What goes with A and E?

Here,” she

said, abruptly stopping to hold the guitar out by the neck, “you show me.”

Tanav hesitated, which only led to Lynn repeating the gesture. “You can learn

chords from the computer archives.” His words carried plenty of resistance, but

he gave into the instinct that carried him through nearly every stage of his life—

from his rst guitar as a toddler all the way to, well…

The only time he lived without the instrument—without music—was his

time on the Horizon. That was his old life. He’d moved on from that. He was

di erent now. “Yeah, but I’m a better learner when you show me,” she said. “And we’re not

getting a new doctor until next week. And your brain needs something new. Unless you want to talk about what’s really going on.”

He didn’t. Partly because he didn’t know what to say. Which meant Lynn

won this point. Tanav rolled a stool next to her and took the guitar. “Come on,” Lynn said, a playful bounce to her voice, “try the rst thing that

comes to mind.”

The first thing that comes to mind. A ri appeared from the depths of memory. In the past few hours, he’d

hummed it, dissecting the notes and beats in his head because those four seconds

mirrored part of the Lumersian transmission. The ri was stuck in his head, a

constant loop that led to a memory of the last time he’d played it…

Which was, actually, the last time he held a guitar—about four years ago. The last time he existed in his home universe, in fact. That ri , backed by

drums and bass and wrapped in lyrics he’d written about relationships that

broke and mended and broke again. It was intended to be about his parents. But at that point, it was about

Thaddea too. He was surrounded by backup musicians contracted by the Crystal Dreams

cruise, house band members loaned out to hit notes and keep time rather than

feel the music. It didn’t matter, though, the people there just wanted one song,

four minutes and fteen seconds of the best and worst thing to happen during

his career. “Coming Home.”

He’d agreed to do this, a forty- ve-minute, eight-song set for a simple trade-

o : stability. He thought Thaddea, of all people, would understand the value of

that. Would Lynn have understood?

He wasn’t sure. They had similar stubborn

natures, immovable when they considered themselves right. That nal night, Tanav chewed on what to say to Thaddea as he sang the nal

lines of “Coming Home,” his hands sliding up and down the fretboard to churn

out the tune’s signature melody. The drummer hit one quick tom roll, then a

pause, then two snare hits leading into the nal cymbal, and Tanav strummed a

nal chord. Applause wrapped the stage, a wave of drunken noise from people

too dressed up to be his usual audience. Tanav appreciated the level of blindness

created by the shining spotlights; it let him do his usual thank-yous without

having to see their apathy. Tanav started his contracted mid-set banter about the cruise’s entertainment

lineup for the rest of the night when the stage shook—a harsh, violent shake, so brutal that his whole sense of balance tipped, and the guitar draped over his

body went horizontal. To his right, the drum kit’s hi-hat ew past him. To his left, the bassist knelt

down, hands on the ground for stability. A loud chime rang out in the theater’s

PA system. “Attention, passengers,” a voice said, “an interstellar anomaly has

affected our gravity generators. Please shelter until they come back—”

The words cut o with a burst of static, then another jolt twisted the axis of

the ship further. Tanav’s eyes went wide as concertgoers started lifting o the

oor, the combination of faulty gravity generators and whatever tipped the ship. Arms and legs clambered, and Tanav locked onto the strange sight of a single

wineglass oating across the space, somehow staying exactly level. A side door

opened, letting in a beam of light that perfectly struck the glass, and even though

it remained a distance away, Tanav saw every single bubble shifting in near pause

within the liquid. Then a voice yelled, “Watch out!”

He’d turned to see the drum snare ying right at his face, and though he

blacked out, he swore he still remembered how the collision gave o a much

deeper snare hit than usual. And one day, he’d gure out if that was due to the

shifting gravity situation or the fact that it smacked his head. When he came to, gravity was restored, but the world changed. Because the

Crystal Dreams oated inside the Lumersian energy well. In hindsight, playing “Coming Home” that night proved particularly tting. He couldn’t go home, no matter how much he wanted to. Demi, the Horizon,

the engine, the Lumersian distress call, they might coalesce into a way home if

they could just get something out of it. Though Tanav did see the irony in having Lynn of all people help with this. “What is that song?” Lynn asked, interrupting his memories. “It sounds

familiar.”

“Well,” he said, instinctive movements playing the rest of the song’s chords,

“there’s only so many combinations of notes and rhythm out there. Sometimes

they overlap.” He paused, then pulled over an idle data tablet in the med bay and

accessed Demi’s research materials. “It’s from one of my songs.” Lynn arched an

eyebrow up at that. “Yes, that song. But also this is where you’ve heard it before.” He played the short snippet of the transmission, several seconds of

digital noise that just happened to replicate nine notes played as a ri from the

outro of “Coming Home.” “Like I said, there’s only so many combinations.”

“Yours sounds di erent, though.” Lynn took the tablet and squinted at the

transmission’s waveform. “Play yours again.” His thumb plucked at the strings

over and over, the nal time in sync with the Lumersian audio. “I think… yours

starts soft and gets louder. This alternates between loud and soft.” The stool

squeaked as Lynn stood. “Humans use volume to express the context of the

words. But some cultures use volume as part of direct meaning. Like saying

something loud means up, but saying the same thing quietly means down.” She

turned the tablet so Tanav could also see the screen, the waveform now on full

display. “Same notes, di erent meanings. Like when you talk about blues and

greens.”

Same notes, different meanings. Tanav hadn’t accounted for that when examining the Lumersian message. He’d processed it without considering dynamics at all—and how could he, of all

people, miss one of the fundamentals of music?

“I just thought of something,” he said, putting the guitar down. Lynn was right. They just needed a break. Now back in Tanav’s quarters, they

repeated the recording over and over as he added new layers of dimension and

reference to the interpretation algorithm. The text started o as three sentences,

enough for Demi to deem the message a distress signal: Photonic energy… will

face eventual collapse… return home. Gaps lled the space between and around those sentences, passages where the

original audio played noises of varying pitches and cadences. Bit by bit, details

arrived, until a paragraph of holographic text oated in front of them. And it

was worse than they thought. This was more than a distress call. And even though Tanav didn’t fully

understand how photonic energy worked, he grasped the scale of the catastrophe

at hand:

The photonic energy well has returned to physical space. It is growing in volatility,

and photonic space will face eventual collapse. Our scientists believe it is because

the remaining energy of Photonic Being #910047 still exists in physical space

instead of being in our collective dimension. This has created a fissure to leak

photonic energy into physical space. 910047 must return home to seal this fissure

Tanav reread the message, this time Lynn gripping his hand. She probably

thought about the destruction of all physical space. It was, after all, a pretty big

deal. But something new slipped into his thoughts, a possibility hidden within

the disaster. If the gravity well had returned, it might also be a way home. Upon arriving in Cluster space, Tanav told Demi that somehow, some way,

he wanted to show his parents and Thaddea who he’d become. If they managed

to help the Lumersians, what else was possible?

A full spectrum of paths pushed and pulled at Tanav, and he remained still,

fully aware that Lynn quietly held his hand. Though he didn’t say anything, he

knew she’d put it together. Of course she would; she was the ship’s

communications o cer. CHAPTER 12

DEMI

Demi had spent hours debating how to present this distress call to GCF

Command, and if it might change anything about their situation. Then everything about their situation changed. Tanav and Lynn arrived to

share that they’d deciphered the message. A breakthrough, for sure, but also a

problem—or a series of problems, because each piece of the message got

progressively worse. The gravity well returned. It was unstable and growing. It could eventually destroy the Lumersians’ dimension. To stop it all?

Their only solution was taking Chuck’s spark back to the well. And that meant Demi had to make peace with returning to a graveyard—one

that might still very well be capable of imploding the Horizon. Just like her

commitment to her band of survivors, she recognized the right thing to do and

the one thing she could control. Even if it meant losing Chuck. He’d want her to do this. And on every level—scienti c, ethical, leadership—

it made sense in so many ways. But just imagining him gone forever back into

the blanket of photonic energy…

She wasn’t quite ready for that. Except she needed to be. And as she

pondered that, a chime interrupted Demi, followed by the unusual sound of

knocking on the door—something she only heard during periods in the well when power rationing required minimal internal sensors. “Demi, an urgent

revelation has been uncovered. These ndings must be seen.”

Only one person on the ship spoke like that. The doors slid open and Neera burst through, three tablets in hand. “It is

possible to execute the photonic jump,” he said, words sprinting out despite the

verbose Dywen syntax. “The issue is the use of steady state presented by the

synth environmental controls.” He held up a tablet, then tapped a button to

sync it with her holo emitter; from her desk display, a hologram of data

materialized. Neera’s words came out at a faster clip than Demi thought was

possible for him. “This con guration was con rmed through simulations by

Sadler and and—”

“Slow down, Neera. That’s an order,” Demi said with a laugh. Neera stood

with a rare downward head tilt—she’d come to learn that Dywens naturally

reverted to a passive and hierarchical baseline, but this move seemed a rare bit of

embarrassment from her normally methodical friend. “Now, tell me from the

beginning.” Demi stood and carefully stepped over Indy on the way to join him. “Without waking up my dog. If you’re careful, she’ll stay asleep and won’t bug

you for once.”

Neera proceeded to give a very detailed, very technical description of what

he’d conjured up with his brilliant engineering friend. But Demi didn’t need

most of it. All that mattered was knowing they found a way to make the

photonic jump possible—and they had the simulation numbers to prove it. They only needed to give it a shot. Pending approval, of course. And that was the problem. Once again, she steadied herself for a conversation with Vice Admiral

Krishna, who agreed to meet on short notice. As she awaited Krishna’s arrival,

Demi couldn’t decide if the universe was ironic or cruel. They’d sacri ced so

much to escape, and now she had scheduled a meeting to beg to go back?

Perhaps returning to the well was inevitable, like the fate of Demora Kim was

tethered to this anomaly across universes, always ready to snap her back, possibly

even hold her there. In a way, it felt like her story was always meant to end there,

which made this whole thing seem tting, even poetic. That unnerved her more than anything else. Krishna’s image arrived. And Demi took a breath, reminding herself of her

three advantages here:

Krishna had been the most sympathetic to her situation since arriving in

Cluster space. Demi had simulation data that showed why the ship wouldn’t jump before

and why it should now. And she was going to only ask for one week to get Sadler aboard, prep the

necessary test, and jump. What was a week in the scope of the Galactic Cluster and this war with no

end?

Demi was about to greet Krishna when two more people arrived: Penn and

Baker, two civilian Cluster government o cials. Then Minister of Defense Cabell. All humans, all stationed at the solar

system’s GC Fleet headquarters on Earth’s colonized moon. Another vice

admiral faded in via hologram, a crystalline species closest to Earth’s sector that

shared resources—yet Demi could not remember the species name. Two more

people arrived, one human captain and one with amphibious qualities, its head

captured in a semi-clear helmet, both of whom were new to Demi. Each successive arrival chipped away at Demi’s con dence and heightened

her nerves. But, she told herself, she had science and data on her side. She saw

zero evidence that bringing the Horizon’s old bones to the front would make

any di erence anywhere right now. “Thank you for all assembling on such short notice,” Demi started. She sat in

her chair, the wide view of her display accompanied by oating holographic

notes. “This is a bigger audience than expected, and I’ll keep—”

A beep interrupted her, announcing the arrival of another person via

hologram. The new silhouette zzled in, rst as a burst of several vertical lines before

settling in on the image of Matthews—who must have been joining them from

his quarters below. Demi reminded herself to sti e any reaction. She would present the facts and

the possibilities as clearly as possible. A quick glance showed that Indy chewed

away at a ship-synthesized bone, Chuck’s spark looming over the dog, and despite the encroachment of privacy, she appreciated that the conference room’s

ongoing repair put calls directly here. Those two sure made things a lot easier to handle. “I’ll keep this short,” Demi said. “Two new developments have occurred

regarding the photonic engine. First, we have received a message from the

Lumersians. It appears the energy well that trapped the Horizon has returned. It

is threatening the Lumersian dimension, and they are requesting aid.” Why was

she so nervous?

She’d done plenty of debrie ngs, across so many situations, and

yet here a bunch of neutral faces ignited her nerves and shortened her breath. She forced herself steady and forward. “Second, my chief engineer has

identi ed a new variable in the processing of synthetic photons within the

engine. He has run simulations with this technique and believes it resolves the

synth decay issue.” Chirps came as Demi tapped icons around the holographic

data. “I’m uploading the simulation records now.” Almost in unison, brows

furrowed, and Demi moved quickly before any questions could slow her. “Given

these recent developments, I’m formally requesting a delay of one Earth-

standard week for the Horizon’s arrival at Base Theta Seven, along with the

pending reassignment for both the ship and myself. In that time, I would like to

lead new tests of the photonic engine.” One breath, then two, then a third came

and went, Demi steeling herself for the next ask. “And pending its successful rst

jump, an additional ve weeks to continue with thirteen further jumps necessary

for reaching the Lumersian energy well and to provide assistance.”

On the display, two of the admirals whispered to each other. Krishna sat with

her eyes down, presumably scanning the uploaded data. Even Matthews o ered

a thoughtful look at his tablet. They could have said no right away. So this was a win. At least for now. “Six weeks total,” Krishna nally said. “One week to prepare and execute a test jump under this new engineering

development,” Demi repeated. “Then if successful, ve weeks for the aid

mission.”

“Let’s assume your team gets the engine working,” Krishna nally said. “Why

should we commit the Horizon’s resources to going there?

The disaster at Ark Getru has severely limited our resources, leaving WM opportunities to exploit

our current situation.”

Demi had prepped for these types of questions and maneuvered into them

like an academy quiz. Had the Cluster been operating with more altruistic

guidance, she would have pointed out charter 16.3 for mutual aid. However, this

was the same group whose negotiation decisions emboldened the WM to

massacre Ark Getru. She needed to get more practical. “I will point out again that I am only asking for one week. We spend more

time doing debrie ngs and analysis.” Glances were exchanged across the display,

and though Demi caught creases forming on the brows of nearly all the

attendees, they angled to show consideration, not resistance. “Remember, the

Lumersians helped design the engine. Helping them might prove bene cial to

Cluster ships. It may bring photonic tech to the whole eet.” That caught their

attention. She decided to go for it. “This could change the war. This could win

the war.”

This wasn’t an easy group, but Demi saw the shifts in demeanor—the focus

of looks, the pursing of lips, the raising of brows. All except one. “Why now?” Matthews broke the silence. “They’ve given us no timetable. Your debrief even states that linear time is a new concept to them. Their panic

could mean that we still have twenty years before they face catastrophic

conditions.”

“Or two weeks,” Demi said, and though Matthews sat some unknown

distance away, she looked directly at him as if he were on the other side of her

personal quarters. “If we can get the engine running, we’d get answers soon

enough. And the ensuing scienti c collaboration could prevent any more Ark

Getru incidents. What could the eet do with photonic tech?

How many

disasters could we stop?

How much faster could we execute?”

“Can you guarantee that?” Matthews nally asked. “You ask for one week, six

weeks, all this time on a theory. Thing is, the Horizon by itself might be all we

—”

“Commander Matthews,” Cabell cut in. “I should remind all of us that there

are di erent levels of classi ed clearance here.”

Demi’s gut churned at the possibility in front of her. She could ask, with all

of upper GCF Command present, why Matthews was inspecting the Horizon’s

old hardware so closely?

If it wasn’t the engine, then what drove this?

The ramen

bar?

Indy’s fur in the rst o cer’s chair?

Clearly, Command knew something. Why else would Cabell cut him o that way?

But instead, Demi chose civility to win people over. And during the long

pause, mu ed chatter and thoughtful looks showed it was the right one. “This technology is intriguing,” said the crystalline vice admiral before

Matthews broke in again. “In theory, that’s all well and good. But Ark Getru has shown how fast the

WM can strike. We need to change our capabilities now.” Demi hid her

confusion at that statement—the Horizon’s outdated systems wouldn’t exactly

achieve that. Matthews took in a breath with pursed lips, and for a ash, Demi

swore she caught something, a are of a grimace on his face. “And Captain Kim’s

ability to deliver on her promise is severely biased—I would say, even

compromised, by her history with the Lumersians.” The side of his mouth

ticked down, and despite being a holo-transmission, he scowled at the others in

the discussion. “You had a romantic relationship with one.”

That was unexpected. And inappropriate. And way out of character. Matthews had a reputation for being matter-of-

fact and mission oriented. His behavior on the ship, his hours poring over the

guts of old hardware and reading ship schematics, that lined up. This did not. This was a trap. For what purpose, Demi wasn’t sure. “The nature of my

relationship with Photonic Being Number 910047 is not relevant.”

“But you do admit that you had a close relationship?” he asked. Why was he

pressing this?

“What was your pet name for him?

Chuck?”

The audio feed picked up murmurs, though Demi couldn’t pinpoint who

said what. “Again, that is not relevant to the matter at hand.”

“We’re talking about bias in uencing judgment—”

“Again, your points are irrelevant.” Demi’s words came out faster than she

would have liked—and probably too fast to help her cause, based on the

surprised looks. Matthews settled back with a nod, and now Demi had to justify her outburst. “Ultimately, we’re closer to getting the photonic engine to work

than ever before, and propagating it further might be fully realized by aiding the

Lumersians. That is worth investing extra time in. One week.”

“We are at war. That changes everything. That prioritizes all our assets, all our

resources. The Horizon is vital to a winning strategy, but only if it puts the

engine aside.” For that moment, Matthews’s composure returned to the person

she’d met: gru , steady, impassioned. But then he took a thorough breath before

his demeanor shifted again. “Your hesitation at joining the e ort is very well

known. I hear the chatter among this crew. They think they’re separate from the

war. There’s active dissent. Every judgment about the engine is compromised by

her history with the Lumersian species and this so-called Chuck. She cannot be

trusted with any decisions about this ship—”

“Commander Matthews. Captain Kim.” Krishna’s voice came out stern. “That’s enough. Take a moment.”

“I don’t—” Demi shot out, like Matthews spoke with precision targeting to

trigger her impulses. Except the words couldn’t form, an uncharacteristic

stammer coming at the worst time possible. She tried again. “You are asking me to abandon my ship, to abandon my crew, and no one will

tell me why—the truth, not the o cial line. The photonic engine—”

“Captain Kim, you said this was going to be short,” Krishna cut in, shaking

her head with clear frustration. “I’m going to make it short. Your request is

noted. We”—she gestured around her—“will deliberate and give you a response

as soon as possible. Krishna out.”

One by one, the images disconnected. As Matthews faded from view, she

thought he’d carry an air of victory, or at least con dence. But right before he

disappeared, she caught him with a thin mouth, weary lines forming across his

face. The display darkened, leaving only oating holograms of data and the sound

of Indy snoring. Demi choked down her frustration. She’d been close. She could

see the engine tempting them. But then Matthews presented an argument that, taken line by line, held valid

weight. The declared state of war allowed for superseding other causes on a case-by-

case basis. The Withdrawal Movement both hoarded resources and operated

without bureaucracy, allowing for quick and deadly strikes. The WM didn’t

care. But, as she understood it, neither did GCF forces. She just didn’t bring that

up. Demi didn’t have any certainties. She just knew that doing something instead

of being part of this escalating churn seemed like it made better use of this single

ship. To everyone else, the Lumersians may have felt theoretical, intangible. But to her, and possibly the seventeen people who’d survived the well, the

photonic species deserved better. And now, she’d given her last, best chance at

making sure that happened. Twenty minutes passed, all with Demi sitting still in her chair, the hologram of

data still oating by as she stared at the blank display. All that time in the

Lumersian well taught her to make extreme contingency plans for the

unexpected, but that only worked when she had the autonomy to move things

forward. Without a ship, without command, without a voice, no possibilities

existed. She was a cog in the GCF machine, and unless Krishna and the others

approved her request, she’d be plucked from this particular machine and tossed

elsewhere. Probably to hide her away in a corner of space where she would toil

without any in uence. Things were so much simpler when all she wanted was to chart the stars. A green square appeared on her display, black text buried within it:

Incoming Message—Classified

“Computer, display message,” she said, her pulse quickening. The screen

ashed, a fraction of a second that stretched until words loaded:

Upon further deliberation, GCF Command has decided your original orders stand. The Horizon will transition to support service for specialized communications, You

are expected at Base Theta Seven within four days. On a personal note, I will add the room was divided between the potential scientific

benefits of and the need to support the front line, but ultimately, the war continues to

supersede decisions and charters during standard operations. That was that. Minutes ago, she’d wondered if the well was inevitable. Clearly, such a thought was delusional, a smidgen of romanticism activated by

Chuck’s voice breaking through for a few moments. The truth was much more

dry and simple: no hand of fate led to the gravity well. And somewhere, under the swirl of emotions and thoughts, Demi sensed the

ultimate contradiction:

Relief. Relief knowing she wouldn’t return to where so many friends and

colleagues had died, where a single lash of unstable photons could destroy the

Horizon. A surprising relief, one that immediately turned to the emptiness of

guilt. And from that, she sat completely still, those feelings pulling at her until

nothing remained. CHAPTER 13

NEERA

It’d been so long since Neera felt truly hopeless that he’d almost forgotten what

it was like. During his time in the Regent Empire, life ran at a constant balance between

numb and dread. He’d learned to focus on himself rather than the systemic

brutalities out of his control— xing one thing at a time, one step at a time. Fear

or discomfort or fury were all stu ed down under compliance. Until his freighter found itself damaged and oating into the gravitational

pull of the photonic convergence point. First they lost altitude control of the

ship. Then reverse thrusters failed to limit the gradual slide into nothing. At that

point, a calm washed over him, the inevitable lack of control so much nicer than

what he had come to know. A bright pink ash of energy swallowed them, and suddenly they were on the

other side of… something. Whatever it was, it brought a di erent sense, the

disquieting strangeness of freedom. Technically, they were still a Regent ship,

but they ew on a twenty-person transport craft of maintenance techs and a

cargo of repair drones. Not exactly a representation of the best, the brightest, or

the most powerful, and because of that, the chain of command struggled. Then Demi emerged on their viewscreen with information. They were

stranded. There were eleven other starships in a makeshift colony. And as the

Horizon was the biggest ship with the most scienti c resources, it formed the

pseudo-capital, with its docking bay hosting regular trading bazaars for the small

shuttles and ghters capable of traversing through the gravitational sludge. Neera had never seen anything like it. Even when the well began its gradual

collapse, he viewed it with a wistful sensibility, gratitude that he’d gotten to

spend some portion of his life in a place free from Regent control. Everything after that was a bonus. Now the Cluster wanted to send the Horizon to war. Without Demi in the

captain’s chair. To feel hopeless, that produced another strange shift in emotion. Anger. Anger at how Command turned down Demi, even with proof—proof

—that they had solved the decay problem. In the Regent Empire, proof was

ignored all the time. But here?

This universe was supposed to be better. How could it not be?

His body tensed. His mind raced. His jaw clenched. This seemed consistent

across species, the way everything turned inward and bound harsher in reaction

to the outside world spiraling out of control. Neera found himself standing in

the middle of his quarters, not looking at diagrams or xing the small projects

he’d brought back from engineering, but just existing in this anger. It boiled over, propelling him to do something wholly unexpected:

He chose to call Sadler. He didn’t know why. His message captured as much: “There is a signi cant

setback. Something must be done. I do not know what that is.”

Those few words depressurized everything, soon causing an unusual fatigue

to wash over him. His breath grew heavy, and a sti ness took over his muscles. He sat down on his bed, staring at the wall, an inner voice chastising himself for

falling apart in such an unconstructive way. This wasn’t his call, these weren’t his

responsibilities, and he had to fall in line, like he did before, like he did for Demi,

like he would do for Matthews or whoever his next captain would be. He just

had to remain in his own scope. He had to. Because that was how he always got through. Stay in his scope and

x things. Reaching out to Sadler was sel sh, emotional, impulsive. If he could

take it back, he would. Neera stared at the wall, lingering on this thought until

his gaze stuck on a light on the wall. A broken light. A dead series of micro-bulbs in the panel next to the faucet in his quarters. They worked during the rst four years of his stay until one of the rst jolts of unstable energy shook the ship and jarred something loose. It ickered or

dimmed over months before the micro-bulbs went out one by one, left to right,

leaving Neera’s quarters with one panel that refused to adjust its line of

illumination. Neera always meant to x it. He’d just never had time. And when the

Horizon docked for repairs following its arrival, a facility engineer told him the

replacement parts were obsolete. So it sat. Until now. Neera got up and grabbed tools, ready to tackle this x that he should have

done long ago. A chime interrupted, though Neera chose to ignore it. He’d

made a mistake in reaching out to Sadler, and he shouldn’t give it any more time. The chime rang again. And again. Sadler would not give up. And though Neera tried to ignore it, he nally gave

in and looked at the desk display around the ninth or tenth time. “Are you okay?” Sadler asked as soon as his image appeared. “You look… o .

Even for a Dywen.”

Perhaps Sadler had an innate sense of pack too. “The micro-bulbs in my

quarters required an attempted x for many years,” Neera said. “Micro-bulbs?” From the display, Sadler angled, though Neera wasn’t sure if

he’d actually be able to see the open panel on the other side of the room. “All this

was for micro-bulbs?”

“Three years have passed since the micro-bulbs in that panel have worked

properly.”

“This is how you’re coping, huh?” Several seconds passed before Neera

understood exactly what Sadler was saying—and why he said it. Probably

reading the confusion on his face, Sadler gave a quick con rmation. “Yes, I

know.”

“This information is limited to the crew, who heard it from Demi this

morning.” Neera leaned forward, examining Sadler’s face in the display. “What

was the source of your information?”

“I told you, word travels fast,” he said with a shrug before pointing at Neera. “Okay, you wanted to do something about it. Good news, I’ve been thinking

about it since I learned about Captain Kim.”

This could only cause more problems. If they did anything now, Neera’s next

captain might discover his actions. He could not break the chain of command. Especially during wartime. “A mistake was made. I should not have bothered

you.”

“My friend, you are the only Dywen I’ve met. And probably the only one I’ll

ever meet. I mean, other than a few other refugees, who knows if you even exist

in this universe?

So I don’t have a lot of experience reading your emotions.”

Sadler’s voice softened, his mouth in a sympathetic diagonal. “Despite that, I

want you to hear me:

“This isn’t over.”

Sadler’s optimism was admirable but misplaced. “The age of conscription in

the Regent Empire is similar to a seven-year-old human joining the military,”

Neera said, his words paced slowly. “Citizenship is earned through a process of

service, then specialty, then eld commission.” In all the times he’d talked with

Sadler, he’d never revealed any of this. In fact, only Demi may have ever heard it. And Chuck too. He de nitely told Chuck, probably during late nights

working on the prototype photonic engine. Neera realized he still held tools in his hands, and he set them aside. “The

di erence in war between here and my universe is something I have considered. Someone was always the target of the Regent Empire. A con ict always existed

to squash out.” Even saying that caused a tremor in Neera’s voice, images of

attened villages ickering through his mind, and he considered his next words

carefully, a mental strain to put them in as much human syntax as possible: “War

is unavoidable. All I can do is contain its impact. There is no way around it.”

“Neera, listen to me.” Sadler’s voice came with the undertow of urgency. “Very carefully. Understand?

You’re wrong. We’ve got a choice.” Sadler

emphasized his claim with a nod, and he continued nodding as he spoke. “We’re

gonna do this. A small window exists.”

“The window to do something has closed. Your belief is appreciated but

false.”

Sadler’s head tilted, three lines forming across his brow. “You’re going to let

that stop you?”

Such a strange question. Sadler asked about something so impossible that

Neera considered if perhaps a word got lost in the transmission. “The list of people Demi met with was lengthy, including the minister of

defense. The answer they gave was clear.” Neera glanced at the time in the corner

of the display. “Scans should complete in about two hours before our nal

departure to Base Theta Seven.”

“Okay, that’s good to know. My estimates were right.”

“Your statement is confusing to me.”

“Hold on one second. I’m sending you something.” A noti cation of

Synchronize Data Patch appeared, along with buttons for Accept and Decline. “Hit Accept on my mark. Three… two… one… now.” Neera did as requested,

and Sadler’s face distorted, pixels forming colored blocks of digital noise,

followed by audio bursts of static and hisses. “Okay, now we’re secure. Encrypted tunnel for just you and me. I’d estimated your arrival at Theta Seven. I’ll meet you there. I’m already in transit.”

“This continues to be confusing. Did you request transfer to the Horizon?

I

require an explanation.”

“Okay. I’m on my way to Theta Seven.” Sadler’s words quickened with as

much excitement in his voice as any scienti c discussions they’d previously had. “No one knows. I’ve borrowed a light freighter, stocked it all up. Let’s test the

engine. I’m positive it’ll work.”

Demi’s transfer. Matthews’s takeover. A list of orders. All of those acted as

barricades to keep the crew of the Horizon in line, and besides, when did

military commanders ever listen to scientists and engineers?

That part was not

unique to the Regent Empire. “I have come across a human saying in your

culture’s archive that feels appropriate: ‘The best-laid plans—’ ”

“It’s not a saying, it’s from a book,” Sadler said with a laugh. “I’ve never read

it, though. Too busy coming up with a plan to get the photonic engine online

and jump us all the way to the Lumersian well so Captain Kim can answer their

distress call. Now, come on.” Sadler’s face changed, a direct and serious look. “You came from con ict. Can you really go back?”

Neera did not know how to answer such a question. He knew how he felt,

but expressing it proved out of reach. “Galactic bureaucracy and GCF security provide many reasons to argue with your intentions.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Sadler said matter-of-factly. “And it’s really simple. Forget legalities. Forget orders. I know that’s hard for you but just listen.” He

pointed to himself, then Neera. “We have the moral justi cation right now. That

outweighs any chain of command. And that means we must do this. I’m going

to meet you at Theta Seven.” He leaned forward, as if he could pop through the

display, blue eyes wide and brilliant, his presence more tangible. “Then we’re

going to steal the Horizon.”

CHAPTER 14

TANAV

Tanav wasn’t sure what stirred him out of sleep rst, the door chime or Lynn’s

groan. But the latter de nitely forced him into some measure of responsiveness. “There’s someone at the door,” she said in a half mu e, before putting the

pillow over her head. Bright digits cut through the dim room, though it took several seconds for his

eyes to focus on the clock—2:28 a. m. on the ship’s hours. “I thought we stopped

extra shifts with all the new people,” he said as he pulled the covers half-down,

though he couldn’t quite commit to the next step of getting up. Another chime came, followed by another groan from Lynn. “My shift starts

at six. Make it stop.”

Sleep wasn’t a privilege anymore, apparently. Recent nights ignited his

thoughts: What might help the Lumersians?

What was happening within the

well?

How could he possibly stay on the ship without Demi?

What did it all mean regarding the sarcastic drowsy woman next to him?

Tonight, he nally fell soundly asleep, so of course this happened. Tanav

rolled out of bed, slipping a robe over his bare shoulders. The door chimed

again, and Tanav waved his arm to trigger the proximity sensor. Awaiting him stood Demi, in full uniform, with dog at her side. Kind of odd

for this time of o -duty night. “Agh, the bright,” Lynn said from behind him, and her voice alone caused

Demi to smirk. “Couldn’t sleep?” Tanav asked, a hand running through his thick dark curls

as he stepped out into the hallway. “I see you have company,” Demi said with a nod beyond the door. “I’m

happy for you. For both of you.” Demi’s expression softened, a two-in-the-

morning look, and Tanav nally noticed the fatigue lines forming around her

eyes and mouth. “You deserve each other.”

“Yeah…” Tanav let his voice trail o ; he was pretty sure Demi didn’t mean for

her compliment to spur heavy thoughts, especially at this time of night. But

such things lingered right now. “I’ve been thinking about that part. Everything

lately…” He glanced over his shoulder, as if he could see through the composite

door at her slumbering in a slightly too-small bed. “It’s gotten complicated.”

That was the easiest way to sum up recent days. Tanav faced the entire

spectrum of possibilities over that span. The Horizon, Demi, the engine, the

Lumersians, the returned well…

A path back home. And a blockade in the form of bureaucracy and war

demands. His thoughts about Lynn shifted with each new revelation, a winding path

leading to an epiphany as life-changing as deciding to take that gig on the Crystal

Dreams. Somehow, the more his future grew uncertain, the more he felt sure about

Lynn. “ ‘Complicated,’ ” Demi said, and the late hour probably made it really, really

hard for Demi to ght the grin sneaking out. “That’s why I’m here. Have you

spoken to Neera today?”

Neera?

That could mean many things—all of which would further

complicate things. Apparently, Tanav wasn’t getting back to bed tonight. “He seemed busy today.”

Demi looked around the hall, and even though no one was within earshot,

her voice dropped. “He and his friend Sadler. They think they found a way. You

understand?”

A way. “I think I do,” Tanav replied to Demi’s cryptic words. “The only way to go there means not going elsewhere.” That took a moment

for him to put together, but the context and her sudden intensity pointed him the right way. He nodded. “It means making very speci c choices that many

won’t approve of, but I’m going to do this. I have to. I’m only taking people

who want to be part of it. Everyone gets a chance to opt out.”

Demi trusted Tanav to read others. But he could read her too. Particularly

now, when fatigue or desperation or something else let her emotions slip

through more than she’d ever like. She spoke with equal parts cryptic direction

and diplomatic strategy, but her tone gave things away as much as the glow in her

eyes. She believed. Maybe not in the certainty of whatever Neera and Sadler had conjured up. But with GCF Command trying to take away her home, her crew, her purpose,

built on the chaos of an escalating war, she believed in the righteousness of this

plan, whatever it was. Like executing all these things swiftly and decisively could

strip away the stain of it all—not just for her, but for the entire ship. In fact, the only time he could recall ever seeing her like this was around

Chuck. She had so much belief that she even started nodding as she talked. “Still

guring the plan out, but I wanted to talk to you. Two things. First, you know

this crew. You know how they think. I’d like your opinion on possible reactions. Second, think about it for yourself. Tell me in the morning—”

The door slid open to reveal Lynn, her oversize T-shirt and shorts contrasting

with Demi’s eet uniform. “Hi, Demi. Captain, ma’am,” she said with a quick

salute, a sudden sharpness to her previously drowsy words. “I’m in. I can help

Neera with the engine too.” She looked up, then pointed above them. “No space

walks, though.”

“That’s my way home.” How long until they were due at Theta Seven?

It was

far too early to crunch that, and besides, he was never a numbers guy. He just

knew that everything important in his life hurtled that way, and the utter in his

chest meant that he’d already embraced this journey, even if he wasn’t certain he

was ready. Maybe, like Demi, he believed. Lynn hooked her arm around his,

leaning against his shoulder. He looked at her, so many things that needed to be said. And soon. “Sorry, I mean—”

“You’re stating a fact,” she said. “That’s your way home. I’m happy to help

you get there. You deserve a choice.”

Did Lynn mean a choice about going home and everything that entailed?

Or

a choice about them?

Tanav tried not to overthink it all, yet knew he had to sort

it out. Just not at two in the morning. “I guess I’m in.” Behind him, Lynn cleared her throat much louder than it

needed, and Tanav corrected himself. “Her too. We’re already at the gates,” he

said before shaking his head. “Sorry, home-universe saying. It’s late. You know

what I mean.”

Demi nodded with a new seriousness—determination mixed with excitement

mixed with the unknown. “I should let you two get some sleep,” she said before

clicking her tongue to get Indy’s attention. “There’s a lot to prepare.”

With that, Demi walked away, Indy trotting alongside her. Lynn put her arm

around Tanav’s waist for a quick squeeze before heading back inside. “I’m gonna

start the co ee,” she said, breaking into a hum. As he stood in the open doorway, Tanav recognized the melody as the outro

to one of Lynn’s favorite songs, a repeated refrain that led the tune to its nal

beats, and under his breath, he joined along. “ ‘The execution of all things,’ ” he murmured, “ ‘The execution of all things.’ ”

TRANSCRIPT OF ARCHIVED PERSONAL LOG

Grant Singh

Commander, Galactic Cluster Fleet—Starship Horizon (Deceased)

I’m not sure how we’re going to resolve this latest problem, but that’s the nature

of the well, I guess. Oh, the strangest thing happened. Demi stopped by tonight with a question that was… what’s the phrase?

Shocking, but not surprising?

Shocking is a bit harsh. We all kind of knew about

Demi and Chuck—I mean, her tone completely changes around him. There’s

this singsong quality to her jokes that never exists around us. The rst time, I

thought maybe she hiccuped. After that, I knew. She had a very serious look on her face, more serious than normal, and asked

me how I would feel about her having a relationship with an o cial member of the crew. To which I answered, “Is Chuck part of the crew now?

I thought he was just

a visiting scientist.”

Now, I’ve known Demi for, what, sixteen years now?

And I have never—and

I mean, never seen her blush. I didn’t think it was in her DNA. The closest she’d

come before was saying some quippy remark and looking away. I gave her a minute to process my jab by making co ee. One for each of us. And when I returned, she goes, “Are we that obvious?”

I didn’t even answer the question. But they are. Painfully. I said, “Captain Demora Kim. You have kept us alive through hell and back. So, as your longtime friend, but more importantly, as your rst o cer and

immediate subordinate, I have something very critical to tell you: “It’s okay for

you to be happy.”

She replied with: “It’s unexpected. I don’t even know where it’s going to lead. It’s just that when we talk, everything feels right. Even when everything else is

wrong.”

“That’s how I felt with Rand,” I told her. “And if I ever get back home, I’m

going to let him know that every goddamn day until he’s sick of hearing it.”

As Demi left, I made a joke about how I planned to give the toast at their

wedding. She smiled at that. I can tell when those are authentic. They’re less

smirky. She didn’t even take her co ee. More for me, I suppose. CHAPTER 15

DEMI

Demi spent a good minute or so pondering if she had gotten into the wrong line

of work since she really, really hated giving speeches. Middle-of-the-night

discussions with Indy at her side, sure, but standing in front of an attentive

group?

No thanks. Eventually, every starship captain had to give a heartfelt speech, either in

gratitude or for inspiration or whatever emotion the moment needed. Words

designed to move, just like propulsion through space, except with dopamine in

the brain. For many years, she delegated speeches to Grant. Except for eulogies. Demi

always took those on herself. When she spoke, a whole-body change occurred:

how she stood, how she breathed, all ways that would have impressed her

academy speech and rhetoric teacher. It worked, but it sure took effort. She supposed in a di erent life, she might have been an actor, turning it on

and o .

Possibly on a community theater level. Or at least a tour guide. On the other hand, Grant could have been a mayor with the way he just said

the right thing. He’d had a natural way of connecting on a personal level. At the

Horizon’s initial launch out of dry dock, as the ship’s propulsion came to life,

he’d spied her checking system data and metrics on her tablet. “Hey,” he’d said, reaching over from the rst o cer’s chair. She thought he might have noticed an anomaly in the thermal systems or

stability enhancers. Instead, he’d looked at her and then nodded to the wide view

from the Horizon’s bridge. “The rst ight of your rst command. You might want to slow down and be

present for it.”

If only Grant could speak for her now. Or at least provide some words of

wisdom. Because this was more than speaking to the crew. This was launching a

massive plan with many unknowns, all on a collision course with the place that

they never should return to. Demi blinked, and when everything went dark, her

mind’s eye lled with the bright, inescapable hell of the gravity well. The hydraulics from the docking tube blew pressurized air, an outward curl

of fog that eventually dissipated about ve feet up. Above the hexagonal door, a

light shifted from red to yellow, indicating that the tube bridging the Horizon

and Base Theta Seven continued locking together. Several seconds later, a loud

buzz rang out from the side of the port door, indicating that the passage had

securely connected. “I wanted to take a moment to thank you,” Demi said as she looked at the

fty or so crew members assembled in the observation lounge. Fifty or so plus

one, technically, as Matthews stood in the front row, though o center. “Some

of you have been with me and this ship for ten years. Some of you have only

been here for a few weeks, or even a few days. It’s never easy to go through this

kind of change; every crew and every leader has a certain rhythm to how they

work. But I am con dent that whatever the Cluster requires of this ship and this

crew, you will make us all proud—as proud as I am to have been your captain,

whether that was for a decade or days. This ship is special, and the rest of the

eet will soon understand that.” Tanav gave the slightest of nods, a subtle

acknowledgment that the words hit all the right marks. Though the side of his

mouth tilted in a hint of a smirk, enough to show he saw through her front. Connors led the crew in applause, which rattled through, the noise bouncing

o the ship’s walls, while Demi tried to do the Grant-esque thing of appreciating

the moment, she also kept one eye on the far monitor to her left. Because for anyone that looked closely, they might have caught ashes of

notices identifying an incoming vessel swinging around Theta Sseven. In fact,

both Tanav and Neera snuck their own glances as well. The clapping subsided as Demi held up a hand. “Computer, open the port

door to the secured docking tube. Authorization voice print check, Demora Kim, Captain.” The ship’s computer responded with several chimes before the

clicks and thunks of locking mechanisms started. “I wish you all safe travels and

good luck. And for those who have been on the Horizon since the beginning, I’d

like you to stay a few minutes more. There are some things that I would like to

share with you about our experiences together.” Heads turned at this request,

and Tanav and Neera began to gather the small group of longtime crew

members. Most of the others departed, with Connors guiding them to the docking tube

for a few welcome days of respite at a large station before the ship would set out. The rst o cer gave one nal wave, then followed the crew o the ship. However, Commander Matthews didn’t budge. Instead, he watched as Lynn,

Aurora, and the others re-formed into a smaller group. His eyes narrowed in

concentration and his feet remained rmly planted, like he wouldn’t move even

if the airlock pressurization failed. Neera angled his wide neck enough to catch Demi’s eye, a telltale sign that his

instincts picked up on her sudden discomfort. She shot him a quick nod and

then stepped over to Matthews. His stubbornness would not get in the way of their plan. “Commander, I would like a moment with my crew,” Demi said with as

much harshness as politeness would allow. “Go right ahead,” he said without moving. “In private.” The words came out in a clipped bite, enough tension wrapped

in a few short syllables for Matthews to reply with an indignant scowl. “Captain, something’s not right here.” He nally broke from his pose,

turning to look her in the eye. “During whole-crew changeovers, security teams

sweep the ship for bugs,” he said, drawing in a short breath. “Wartime protocols

after Ark Getru. We need everyone o .”

Demi thought back to the conference with GCF Command, where

Matthews spoke almost with glee about her relationship with Chuck. All of this

felt personal, like Matthews targeted her and the Horizon for reasons unknown. It hadn’t come up again at all, and though they’d barely spoken since then, any

passing moments were polite discussions of ship logistics. Matthews had weaponized that knowledge. But why?

She still didn’t know;

either way, it wouldn’t matter given their other plans for the ship. Demi’s eyes bounced to the monitor in the far corner, fast enough that

Matthews ignored it. Sadler was on course, and she needed Matthews o this

ship, fast. “This is an open forum with people who have been to hell and back together. There may be things…” Demi hesitated, her choice of words aiming for the

perfect balance between professionalism and “get the hell out.” “Things that

they want to keep between those who have been on that journey. We may not be

together again. I think they deserve ten minutes for that.”

From across the space, Tanav red an anxious look, then o ered a not-so-

subtle point at the corner monitor. “I see. That is fair, I…” Matthews paused. Demi traced his eyes to the back-corner monitor monitor where she’d snuck

her looks. If this had been the Cluster Demi recognized, the fact that Sadler piloted

wide around Theta Seven probably would have been nothing more than a tra c

curiosity. In this context, though, it caught Matthews’s attention. Matthews held up the tablet in his hands and accessed the ship’s scanners. “Let’s see. Daedalus-class light freighter, crew of up to ten plus cargo. But only

one life sign aboard. And this craft’s itinerary shows that there’s no itinerary. Cleared to dock on the other side of Theta Seven. So why are they heading this

way?”

He couldn’t have known what they were up to, but whether it came from

paranoia or prudent awareness, Matthews recognized something was afoot. Possibilities whirled through Demi’s head, and she picked the easiest one to

execute—though whether this o ered the highest chance of success, she wasn’t

sure. That was something that Chuck could have helped calculate. “May I see that?” Demi asked, an intentional urgency in her voice as she

viewed Matthews’s tablet. With only seconds to decide, she made a choice. “We

can access stronger scanners on the bridge. Come with me.” Matthews raised an eyebrow but nodded at this, and she turned to the seventeen people awaiting

her. “Commander Neera?”

He walked over, and though he wore concern across his face, his unfamiliar

alien nature probably meant Matthews couldn’t read it. “Captain?”

“Commander Matthews has identi ed an unsanctioned and unscheduled

incoming craft. We’re going to the bridge to see what the scanners pick up. Can

you boost scanner depth from engineering?” As she spoke, subtle changes came

across Neera’s face, the angled ridges across the upper half gradually pulling in. She paused, giving him enough space to ad-lib. Which wasn’t a Dywen specialty, but hopefully his pack sensibilities could

pick up on where she was leading. “The situation is becoming clearer to me. Commander, you may not realize

this, but my culture of origin was a place where deception and sabotage were

commonplace.” Neera pointed over their shoulders toward the direction of the

engineering deck. “This is a science vessel. It has more powerful scanners than a

space station. I will adjust and calibrate scanning parameters to check for

threatening chemical compounds and any other signs of WM activity.”

Constructive deception. Neera was learning. “Forward thinking. I like it,” Matthews said. “You’ll nd Commander Neera is one of the best problem solvers in the crew,

even beyond engineering systems. Good idea. Please tell Counselor Lexin to lead

the discussion with the remaining crew.” Demi turned to Matthews, chin high

with determination. She caught herself, a sudden awareness of how it must have

come across: stubborn, annoyed, a little pissed o .

All of that rang true. And really, he acted the same way to her. But she could

at least dress it up a little for his sake. She sti ed an oncoming grin, a ash of

memory as she heard Chuck say, “I do not understand this human drive to be

very stubborn.”

Demi watched as Neera moved to Tanav, who then broke away and addressed

the remaining crew in hushed tones. Whatever he said, Demi wasn’t sure;

perhaps it didn’t even matter. Tanav knew what she planned and why. The

outcome, though, remained unpredictable. Would Casey jump at the chance to defy Command—and in a way, her family?

Would Macek just be happy to have

more science-ing to do?

Would Lindsay talk to her again?

Would anyone be terri ed of going back there?

If Demi had spoken, all emotions probably would have heightened for better

or worse. She didn’t want Tanav to carry this burden, but Matthews forced her

hand. And she needed to let the crew have that discussion as soon as possible. She didn’t even wait for Matthews to approve or acknowledge her change in

direction, instead taking the quick and wide steps toward the elevator. “This freighter is ying wide. Halfway around Theta Seven,” Matthews said,

keeping several steps behind her. “We’ll transmit our ndings as soon as we get detailed scans. Could just be a

joyrider,” Demi said as the elevator doors slid open. She stepped in with arms

clasped behind her waist and back straight. “Bridge.” As the elevator moved, she

pondered the di erent ways to solve this Matthews problem. Getting him o the

ship now seemed impossible. The elevator chimed, and Demi motioned for Matthews to step out toward

the bridge’s double doors. Everything ran against the same clock: Tanav’s crew

discussion, Sadler’s impending dock, and whatever happened to Matthews. The doors slid open. The commander didn’t budge. “Captain, we have

reason to believe there’s a WM spy on the Horizon.”

That was unexpected. Did Matthews refer to their ship-stealing plan?

No, it couldn’t be that. Their

goals existed outside of the war. Which led to another question…

Did he suspect her?

She felt the weight of his stare, and his wrinkled brow probably meant that he

was trying to decipher how trustworthy she was. “An encoded transmission was

sent this morning from the Horizon to a known WM mole at Base Delta Nine. Not using the ship’s comm arrays. Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” Demi said quickly. Urgency chipped away at her, but speaking fast and

acting quick would only ramp up his suspicions for something she was

genuinely separated from. “This morning?

Do you suspect one of the new

transfers?”

“Unsure. Everyone is a suspect,” he said, and they remained at the threshold

of the bridge. “We know there are plans for an imminent coordinated attack. We

just don’t know when or where.”

“Including me?”

“Everyone is until vetted,” he said. “No o ense. Our personal di erences

aren’t a factor here.”

“Commander, I think if you look at any of my communications—private or

public, you’d see that I have no love for the WM or extending this war.” Demi

forced movement now, walking onto the bridge. This did open up a whole new

set of variables, but it kept coming back to the fact that aggressions and

escalation between these two sides didn’t involve her. She had a photonic species to rescue. That was what she could do. She also had to keep Matthews away from Sadler’s freighter. That ship had to

dock. “What can I do to assure you of that?”

Matthews’s chin wrinkled, as if he’d anticipated this question. “It’s simple. There’s a security team waiting to question everyone as they leave this ship. Go

do that while I scan this mystery freighter. And let the scanner team on board to

do their job.” Now he followed her, eyes taking in the still-active stations. “It’s

the same reason why they’re checking the Horizon’s transport shuttles. The

cover story is repair, the reality is they want to sweep them in a neutral

environment. After Ark Getru, anything is possible.”

While he looked, Demi realized he was temporarily distracted. She scanned

the bridge for options—chairs, stations, equipment. None of that would really

help. She had words, but she couldn’t bring him back down when Tanav might

have still been discussing mutiny with the crew. Matthews turned to the status monitors on the far side of the bridge, where a

live feed from the docking bay sat adjacent to ongoing status updates. “It’s

getting closer. I don’t like this. Captain.” He turned to Demi. “I’m giving you

the bene t of the doubt here. Get your crew, get o this station, prove your

innocence. Help me nd this spy.” He moved over to the helm station and

tapped to activate scanners. “These are standard scans. How fast is Commander

Neera with updates?”

Once Sadler landed, they’d need to take the Horizon immediately. That was

the plan—catch security and everyone else o guard for the fastest lead time

possible. “He’s fast. But this is also an old ship,” Demi said. Which ignored the

fact that Neera was probably at the docking bay preparing for Sadler’s arrival,

but it sounded good. “You’re right. I understand you’re in a di cult position,

and I want to get to the bottom of this too.” Matthews continued looking at the

scanner, and Demi checked from the space again for something that could hit

everything that they needed right now. She needed a fast, easy solution, and it

sure would have been nice if she could just snap her ngers to teleport Matthews

over to Theta Seven. Bridge stations o ered no support, and even if they could

do something useful, she wouldn’t have the time or excuse to operate them. Same thing with the emergency weapon stored beneath the captain’s chair—

shooting Matthews was out of the question, and she wouldn’t have time to

unlock all the security mechanisms anyways. “I’ll gather the crew and make sure

they all process through security.”

“Appreciate it, Captain. That earns a lot of points in my book. Now, this

freighter, it’s angling its vector into a docking position.” Matthews activated his

comm link. “Transmission: Matthews to Neera. Neera?”

Demi turned, looking but not stepping toward the doors, and then she saw

it:

The emergency medical kit adjacent to the bridge’s entrance. Neera didn’t respond to Matthews, but that didn’t matter because the

chimes from the data table grabbed the commander’s attention. “Proximity

detection,” he said, heavy boots clanking on the metal as he marched over. He

stood over the glowing display, arms crossed in full focus. Demi’s ngers

fumbled through the kit’s equipment until she felt the familiar cylindrical shape

of a med injector sitting tightly in a foam casing. “It’s not the freighter. Two new

unidenti ed craft,” Matthews said, arms now propped up on the table’s edges. “Captain, come take a look at this.” Just like that, mutual respect returned. Which was nice, though not enough to drop the injector in her hand. “Merchant ships. That’s strange. There’s a blockade.” Matthews tapped the

screen to project out a holographic pro le of each ship in front of the bridge’s

window. “They used older clearance codes. And that freighter, it’s closing in.”

Unidenti ed ships and a warning that an attack was imminent somewhere?

And a suspected spy among the crew, with an outgoing message today?

The plan was to steal the ship and y o to the gravity well, yet her resolve

wavered, old ingrained GCF feelings about duty surfacing for a moment. At least until Matthews stepped over to the comm station. “That freighter’s

initiating dock. We can’t let it land.” He pulled a handheld comm link from his

belt. “Emergency security team, this is Commander Matthews aboard the

Horizon. We’ve got an active—”

As soon as Matthews initiated the call, Demi knew it was all over. He may

have had the right reasons, but security teams interfering with Sadler would end

their journey before they started. Matthews and GCF Intelligence dealt with

factors in their control, the decisions made at the highest levels continuing the

con ict and the death rather than reining it in. But by getting to the Lumersians, Demi could take action against con ict

and death, for a species that supported everyone on the Horizon when they

needed it. She didn’t like leaving things this way. But she had to make a choice. As Matthews spoke into his comm link, Demi jammed the injector into his

neck. He collapsed to the oor immediately, eyes shut and completely frozen. She dashed back to the med kit and grabbed a scanner just to check…

All vital signs appeared normal, and the display indicated an estimated

countdown for his unconscious state. All those wakes. All those rescues. All those destroyed ships. All in the well. If Demi had to go to war, she would at least go to her war. She turned her head to speak into the embedded comm link on her uniform. “Transmission: Kim to Neera.”

“Neera here.”

She’d already planned on begging forgiveness for stealing the Horizon. Now

she’d really have to channel Grant on that speech. “It’s just you and me right

now. Give me an update.”

“The docking sequence has been completed by Sadler. Equipment is being

unloaded at the moment.”

“Good work.” Sadler was on board. Matthews couldn’t get in the way. At

Demi’s feet, Matthews groaned, and the sight of the unconscious commander

made her pause—what had she done?

She’d thrown in a lot of trust to an

engineer she barely knew, even if Neera vouched for him. The answer came to her with obvious clarity: Sadler was the only way. No

other choice existed. Only one thing remained. Demi generally abstained from any religious

beliefs, but right now she quietly manifested that Tanav’s bond with the crew

could get them through this. “All right. Neera, get the ship ready to leave as soon as possible.” Demi held

up the injector and checked the device’s usage history—she’d put a lot of

sedative in there. “Matthews isn’t going to be a problem for a while. So let’s get

things going.”

“How long is ‘for a while’?”

“Long enough. I’m going to plot a course,” Demi said as she marched over to

the navigation panel. “Kim out.”

CHAPTER 16

TANAV

With Demi and Matthews disappearing into the elevator and Neera dealing with

his friend’s incoming craft, that left Tanav to explain what was about to happen

to the remaining crew in the observation lounge. He should have been perfectly

built for this moment. He’d trained his whole life to read people and nd

opportunity. So why did he feel so unprepared for this?

Unprepared may not have been the right word. Anxious?

Guilty?

Like lling

two cups from a dry faucet?

This seemed like a hefty ask. Tanav reminded himself: This wasn’t a demand. Everyone had a choice. As for the hangar bay on the front end of deck three?

The corner display

showed all icons ipping to blue, which meant one thing:

Sadler had arrived. That started the countdown to FTL launch. Tanav glanced at the di erent

status display next to the lounge’s window: instead of ship status updates, it

ipped to a timer for FTL warm-up with di erent stages being highlighted. The countdown started at twelve minutes and thirty seconds. Demi’s orders

were to go as soon as they could, so Tanav’s window was clear. Too bad Thaddea

wasn’t here. She made being on time look so easy. As if she heard his thoughts, Lynn looked his way, a ash of a reassuring smile

—which also made the most uncomfortable juxtaposition to all of this. Or

uncomfortable parallel, depending on how you looked at it. “I’m going to be very direct with you,” Tanav said, his words more curt than

he intended, and confused looks formed across the group. “We’ve been through

a lot together. And we all know that they want this ship to be part of the war. We

all saw the footage. I don’t think it sits well with anyone. And something has

happened—something outside of the war.” He scanned the room, gauging where

this was going, what might come next. Lynn met his eyes with anticipation. Aurora scowled—slight, but present. Lindsay avoided talking to Demi after Ark

Getru, but at least they appeared to listen here. Casey’s face showed she was

intrigued, though it sounded like she’d take any opportunity to spite her family

line of GCF o cers. And Karl, he’d expressed support for the Cluster before,

but he nodded here. Those represented the spectrum of rst responses, with the others

somewhere in between. Tanav could work with that. “Demi wants you to know,” he said, “that the Horizon is not going there.”

He paused to let murmurs ripple around before quieting. “That countdown,”

he said, pointing at the display. “When it gets to zero, the captain is going to take

this ship back to Lumersian space.” Murmurs came again, this time louder—and

Aurora wasn’t the only one with a scowl. Normally Tanav worked to lead people

to what they wanted, in a way that revealed what they needed. Except there

wasn’t time for that now. “They need our help. Like we needed their help. The well has returned, and

it’s ripping their dimension apart.” What was the phrase Demi used to describe

this earlier?

“Demi feels morally bound to o er them mutual aid.”

Now he really had to choose his words carefully. “We weren’t supposed to

hear the details about Ark Getru. The cover story, the failed negotiations. To me,

it sounds like the Cluster isn’t even trying. But what we know is that the

Lumersians need our help. That’s a ght we can choose right now. Instead of a

ght that I don’t understand. I don’t think anyone does.”

Reactions splintered across the room, and Tanav’s instincts pushed him to

read through them, to pick up what they thought. But the countdown marched

on. “You say that,” Aurora said, “but you’re not from here. This is my ght. My

family is at risk, just because of where their farm is.” With everyone looking at

her, she shrugged. “You all might as well know. I’m resigning my post. I’m going

home. No one’s looking out for my family, and they need help.”

“She’s not wrong.” Material scientist Ali Kent stepped forward, and Tanav

thought of Ali’s darkest days in the well, when he found her alone in the med

bay sitting silently in the corner. “We nally return home, and then I read about

why the WM exists, and it made sense. Why aren’t those systems getting more of

a say?

They do way more for the Cluster than my home system, that’s for sure. The Cluster tried to lie to us about Ark Getru. What else are they lying about?”

Suddenly, everyone talked over one another, voices muddled together in

emotions and arguments. Any goodwill from years of comradery seemingly

evaporated, and Tanav put his hands up. “Hey!”

Lynn joined in too. “Please. We’re all friends here. Look, we’re running out of

time, so just give Tanav a minute.”

“Demi is o ering everyone a choice. She got pulled away before she could tell

you all herself. She believes this is the only way to help the Lumersians and

potentially keep the Horizon as a research ship. But we have to decide now. I’m

sure Demi’s original speech was going to be more…” The words stopped,

Tanav’s mind searching for the right way to frame this. “More inspiring. But I’m

making this up as I go.” At least the sentiment earned warm laughter from the

group. Ulpio, who started as a planetary scientist but wound up covering a range

of atmospheric and even biological sciences. Macek, who actually talked about

science more than Neera did. Lindsay, who started as the environmental

operations o cer but wound up spending half their time recruited into

engineering. And Lynn, of course. Who gave him a warm look that he took as “You’re

doing all right at this.”

“I’m committed to going. We could use as much help as possible. The

Horizon’s a big ship. And I’m de nitely not quali ed to y it.” He tapped his

chest with a laugh. “I imagine going back there is not something everyone will

want to do.”

Ulpio shook his head, an anguished grimace on his face. “I can’t go back. I

won’t go back.” He pressed his hands against his temples, ngers swept through

wavy black locks. “Put a gun in my hand, put me on the battle eld. I’d rather do

that. I’d rather have been on Ark Getru. I stayed on the Horizon because this

promised to be better than the war, but the war is better than that place. I’m

sorry.”

He broke from the group, letting out one more “I can’t go back” before

storming into the docking tube. “It’s too much,” Lindsay said. They shook their head, their thin face framed

by lavender-tinted hair held back by a white headband. “I won’t get stuck for

another ten years. Plus, this is an act of treason, right?

What happens to us

after?”

A very sudden sinking feeling hit Tanav in the gut, a weighty realization that

they’d banded together to survive—but now in the face of choice, everyone felt

di erently. Everyone had something di erent calling them. He wanted to go

home. Demi wanted to rescue the Lumersians. Aurora wanted to help her

family. Ulpio wanted a moment’s peace. He tried to come up with a reasonable

response to Lindsay’s question—a very good, very justi ed question—but

nothing came. He just didn’t know. And he really wished he’d realized that earlier. Lynn took a step forward, noticing his hesitation. Her eyes locked onto his

brie y, a sudden erceness in everything from her look to her stance. “Look,

Demi asked for volunteers. I’ve volunteered. Everyone makes their own choice,

and soon, because we are out of time—”

The lounge’s doors slid open, and everyone turned to see Ensign Diaz come

in. He stopped in mid-stride and paused at the group. “Sorry I’m late. I was

touring the ship since it’s so empty and lost track of time. You never get to see

ships this way.” He craned his neck to take in the group. “I didn’t miss Captain

Kim, did I?”

Lynn ignored him and continued. “There’s no time to debate. Anyone who

does not feel one hundred percent comfortable should go. Like, right now. We

won’t blame you.” No one moved, and an urgency took over Lynn’s words. “Go,

now. You have to.” She glanced at Tanav. “Right?”

Pushing people out the door wasn’t what Demi would have done. But one

look at some of the faces and Tanav threw in with Lynn. As loyal as Tanav felt to Demi—and as much as he wanted to have the largest

support crew possible—they trusted him, relied on him. That created an

internal paradox, a game of pry-apart wrapping all his sensibilities. He sensed

their desire to leave despite loyalties and past experience. They just wanted a

trusted friend to recognize that before taking that step. Despite the tightness in his chest, he could accept that. “We won’t blame you.” Tanav echoed her words, though he quietly

wondered how Thaddea would have handled this, with her refusal to accept

anything but her own rm stances. Lindsay stepped back, o ering quick hugs to those who chose to leave. Diaz

stood with a confused look. Five others followed Lindsay out the docking tube. And while Macek o ered an “I owe Demi” with a rm nod, the remaining

others conferred in rushed debate. Hikaru tried humor to settle things, joking

that he’d y anyone back and forth. Aurora was clear, she was leaving but

wanted a moment to say goodbye to her friends. The rest broke down in voices. Diaz came up behind Tanav as the group talked in low tones. “I missed

something, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Lynn said, “but you should—”

Out of nowhere, a jolt rocked the ship. Tanav reached out to steady himself,

but nothing was in reach; instead, Lynn steadied him with a hand, looking

around. “Oh shit,” she said. “Get to the docking tube now. Go!”

“Attention: This is the captain.” Demi’s voice came over the ship’s public

address. “Two Withdrawal Movement ships have arrived in disguise. They’re

ring on Theta Seven. Anyone who wants to leave this ship must do it—”

The Horizon shook again, and outside the large window the ery glow of an

explosion bloomed. Lynn ran over to the back window rst, then everyone else

quickly followed, with Tanav bringing up the end. Theta Seven began pulling

away, a gradual shrink—

No—the Horizon itself pulled away, the docking tube that had connected

the ship and the station now severed. Debris twisted in space, and ship systems clanged and groaned. The Horizon’s automated systems jettisoned the mangled

part of Theta Seven’s docking tube and retracted its own part. Around them,

displays ashed bright red letters: AIR PRESSURE EMERGENCY

PROTOCOLS ACTIVE, and a large metal plate slid down in front of the

docking tube door and the back exit. They were trapped in the observation lounge. The ship drifted, the low sounds of systems powering up as Theta Seven

continued to recede. Diaz stood without saying anything. So did Lynn, though she stepped back

to interlock her ngers with his. Aurora muttered under her breath as she

stormed between both sealed exits, a rapid- re cursing probably on behalf of her

family farm, targeting anyone and everyone in the galaxy. As for Tanav, he braced himself as a burst of WM re swirled past the

observation lounge window, a horizontal phalanx of energy that missed its target

and disappeared somewhere into the vacuum of space. A ash of translucent

white wrapped over the window before breaking into tiny bubbles that

disappeared from view. Neera’s voice broke over the ship’s comm system. “The engine systems are

entering power-up sequences. However, the ship is now protected by shields that

have fully activated.”

“Are they attacking us or are they attacking the base?” Aurora asked. No one answered. Tanav supposed it was possible the WM found out about

the photonic engine and was trying to capture it. Or the crew just happened to

be at the wrong base at the wrong time—who knew what other resource craft

docked on the far side of the station?

Either way, Tanav took a moment to say goodbye to all of this. Perhaps

temporary; perhaps they’d go to the well, save the Lumersians, get to the

precipice of sending him back, and he’d come rushing back into Lynn’s arms, a

swinging hug as her favorite Jenny Lewis song played in the background. Or he’d head home and confront the people who made him want to run away

in the rst place. Then two new thoughts dawned on him, clear choices that stunned in their

simplicity. First, he thought of Lynn—not Thaddea. Second, he could ask Lynn to come with him. He looked at her against the backdrop of debris and passing security craft,

and wondered: How could he have never thought of this before?

CHAPTER 17

NEERA

Neera didn’t have time to help Sadler unload after docking, instead sprinting to

engineering to oversee the power-up sequence of the FTL engine. Still hu ng

from the sprint, Neera was peering over various monitors when Sadler’s voice

came over the small comm link in his ear, a di erent signal path than the intra-

ship communication system. “You hear me, buddy?” Though he’d probably

need a standard ID comm soon; that could wait until they pulled this o .

“It’s

nice landing in an empty docking bay. Less nice when your friend doesn’t help

unload equipment,” Sadler said with a laugh. Neera still marveled at the way humans just let out casual quips like that

under duress, without any need for lengthy explanation. The FTL sequence was standardized and automated but not impervious to

error. In circumstances as high stakes as this, Neera wanted to minimize risk. “In

my experience,” he said to Sadler, a conscious e ort in his words to humanize a

Dywen sentiment about safety and order, “the one time you don’t keep an eye

on it is the one time you’ll need it.”

That was when the rst shake jarred the Horizon, with Demi’s comm

announcement coming shortly after, then followed by Neera powering up

shields. Then the ship shook again. And from the live external feed, the docking

tube to Theta Seven disengaged and retracted, shrapnel and a large, severed piece

oating away. “Lexin to Neera.” Tanav’s voice spoke over the standard ship’s comms. “Neera, we’re gonna have fewer people than we’d hoped for.”

Neera switched o his private channel with Sadler to answer with standard

hardware. “Our crew will be how large, Tanav?”

“Only seven more are staying.” From Tanav’s pause, Neera knew there was a

caveat. “And not everyone’s happy about it. Can you reset the safety doors in the

observation lounge?”

As Neera did that, news of those decisions to leave pulled Neera the wrong

way; such logic may as well have been gravity going up instead of down. Everyone had their own situations and opinions, but ultimately wasn’t it

something greater than that?

Where was their sense of pack?

The FTL status monitor beeped, interrupting Neera’s thoughts on the

splintered crew. The noise marked a two-minute countdown for active FTL

engines. He watched as the clock appeared next to a row of bar charts, each one

gradually turning green to indicate ready-to-launch status. Another beep came through, this time a chime from the ship’s station-to-

station conferencing. Neera activated it and watched both the comm screen and

the status monitor in view. The view of the bridge appeared, though instead of

Demi overseeing things from the captain’s chair, she sat far closer to the camera

at the helm station—enough to obscure the strange lump on the oor. Whatever

it was, it didn’t seem to bother Lynn, who’d dashed through the bridge’s

entrance and sat at the comm station. She’d carried an undercurrent of

uncertainty, possibly distress in her emotions over recent weeks, yet Neera

watched her as poised and ready as ever. “Neera,” Demi said without looking up. “I’ve set the destination. Are we

ready to go?”

Through his earpiece, Sadler’s hu ng and grunts came through, a constant

background noise reminding him that FTL marked only the rst step—they still

needed to jump once they got there. “About fteen seconds must pass until FTL

is available.”

A shock wave slapped Neera in the face. Or at least it felt that way. Yet he was

certain that no WM attacks had just hit the ship. Sensor displays con rmed this;

the Horizon continued to drift back from Theta Seven, with FTL systems nearly

online. No, this was not physical damage. This was psychic damage, a sudden loss

of…

Neera looked down. Only for a moment. He still had duties to attend to. But

just to con rm what his instincts told him. A sudden loss of pack. Ayenew. He was a new transfer, they’d only worked together for a short time,

but they’d spent enough time in engineering for Neera’s innate instincts to sense

his presence, to welcome him in. Ayenew had crossed to Theta Seven. Neera glanced at the live feed from the

rear of the ship. Part of the comm tower at the top of the station showed

damage, but otherwise the only signs of destruction came from the docking

tube. Ayenew must have lingered in the docking tube a little too long. Did their plans to steal the ship cause this to happen?

Did Demi’s choice cause this to happen?

Di erent thoughts and options

refused to consolidate, and a very quiet, very small part of Neera wanted to

know more. But Neera pushed that aside, instead listening to the bridge feed

where Demi spoke. “I need to know as soon as FTL goes online. Command will

know something’s up once we change our vector, so we’ll have to move quick.”

Demi paused to say something to Lynn before facing the camera again. “Where’s

your friend?”

“Sadler’s arrival will be imminent.” The remaining status bars turned green, a

status of FTL ENGINE ONLINE oating above them. “Demi, the most recent

blast on Theta Seven has killed Ensign Ayenew.” He spoke the words as if giving

a report, and in a way, he was. He needed his captain to do something. Though

he let himself slip out a suggestion. “Should we bring weapons online and

engage?”

Few things visibly a ected Demi. Her ability to compartmentalize and

continue was admirable, and Neera wasn’t surprised that she spoke with

precision now. “This ship is not combat ready. GCF security craft is scrambling

now. There’s nothing we can do. And if we stay here, those ships could destroy

us too. We need to stick with our original plan. Understood?”

A di erent rumble reverberated through the ship, along with the subtle g-

forces of the Horizon beginning to angle into course. “FTL power

consumptions are being calculated by ship systems for its target destination.”

“I see it. Programming our launch vector,” Demi said. “We’re moving into

position.”

From behind, Neera heard doors slide open, and the grunts of someone

pulling heavy equipment doubled in his earpiece and behind him. He turned to

nd Sadler walking in backward, each hand pulling two oating carts of

equipment. “This ship has a di erent oorplan from the last one I served on.”

“Is that our tech support I hear?” Demi asked. “Yes.” Neera projected his voice louder as he dashed over to grab one of the

carts. They would have to do proper introductions later. “Captain Demora Kim,

you should greet Lieutenant Colin Sadler.”

“Thank you for risking everything for us,” Demi said. “Hi,” Sadler said, waving vaguely at the screen as he moved the cart toward

the synthetic energy generator. “I think the photonic engine is the future. I

intend to see that through.”

“Glad to have you on our side, Lieutenant,” Demi said. “Trajectory is set. The Horizon is moving to a safe clearance distance before we hit FTL. Counting

down, twenty seconds.”

“Captain,” Lynn said, “Theta Seven is hailing us.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Demi said. Neera looked back over at Sadler, who ignored

the FTL business and was already hooking diagnostic equipment into the synth

generator. “Leave it. They’ve got bigger issues right now. And they’ll gure it out

soon enough. If they don’t, more power to us. We’ll need all the surprise we can

get.”

A low boom shook the engineering walls, followed by a grinding buzz that

reverberated throughout the ship. It grew in pitch and intensity, the noise of

various systems coming to life before starting to work in unison. “Launch sequence is being initiated,” Neera said. Funny how this universe’s

FTL proved so much noisier than his own native FTL engine. He supposed he

would have noticed earlier except he’d spent the bulk of his time either stuck in

an energy well or in static space while experimenting on the photonic engine. “Ten seconds,” Demi said. “Nine… eight… seven…”

“Captain, two GCF security ghters approaching with active weapons,”

Lynn said. Around Neera, the room’s upper lighting shifted into an orange tint

to indicate a proximity alert. “They’re ying around us and engaging the WM

ships.”

“Five seconds,” Demi said. “Everyone hold on. Two… one. I’m taking us

there.”

On-screen, Demi tapped the helm controls to initiate FTL. The entire ship

trembled, one sudden shake as the Horizon accelerated to maximum target

speed. If Neera had a porthole view, he would have seen a starless expanse, light

unable to catch up to the Horizon. The ship’s rattling stopped, the outer plates

and inner hull settling into the active inertial dampeners, and within seconds,

the ship felt as calm as being stuck in the Lumersian energy well. They’d escaped the war. Just like that, a quiet took over Neera’s mind, an air of the expected while

surrounded by tools and systems and scienti c possibilities. If only he could keep things this way. On the monitor, Demi settled into the captain’s chair, and behind her, the

elevator doors slid open to reveal Tanav. But instead of stepping in, Tanav looked

down, and suddenly Neera remembered the biggest unexpected variable about

their mission. Demi had said that Matthews wasn’t going to be a problem for a while. But

she didn’t say why. Now that Demi vacated the helm position, the camera held a

much clearer view of the bridge, and with it, evidence about what she meant. A stolen ship. A lost pack. An unhappy crew. And now, clear evidence that Demi had drugged Matthews. That newfound calm disintegrated, along with Neera’s very essence of order

and practicality. He’d rationalized stealing the ship as a form of roundabout

journey, the Horizon as a means of helping the Lumersians before ultimately

setting this right. But to attack one’s own comrade?

How would they even

explain that to those that remained?

Breaking the rules in the Regent Empire meant imprisonment, enslavement,

or death—or all of the above in one gradual, terrible sequence. And now that they’d actually pulled o stealing the ship, Neera stood very, very still, the

totality of it all igniting his nerves in ways he hadn’t felt in years. Neera almost reached over to the drawer with his small x-it projects, except

he didn’t have the immediate time to work on one. But it really would have

helped. Instead, his ngers dgeted at air. CHAPTER 18

DEMI

Demi had many, many reasons to second-guess her decision, and they all popped

into her mind right after the FTL drive sent the Horizon on its way. Should they have stayed at Theta Seven?

Part of their crew had crossed that

docking tube—the new transfers and some of the originals who chose to leave. Did she abandon them?

Did she abandon the people in need at the station?

Ensign Ayenew counted on her to be a leader. Was he dead because of her?

Or if they had all walked onto Theta Seven, would more have died?

She

intercepted a report that security ships fought o the WM attackers, with

damage limited to the docking tube and comm tower. But really, what di erence would the Horizon have made?

She made herself

think this through in cold, practical terms—other than a distraction option, the

ship had limited weapons and maneuverability. At best, they’d get in the way; at

worst, the Horizon would have sustained damage as well, possibly been

destroyed. And in the aftermath of an attack, they had an outdated med bay and

no doctor or nurse on board. On the other hand, they could help the Lumersians. One entire photonic

species versus a localized attack where the Horizon could barely assist. Demi was fully aware that even listing these things out side by side might

simply be internal justi cation for her decisions. Or a subconscious preparing of

talking points, because as she got Tanav’s report, she was going to need to do

some explaining—and convincing. Plus, there were a whole other list of issues: Did GCF security think they were

in on the attack?

Would those ships pursue?

How much of their trail and

trajectory could be detected?

And then there was the whole issue of an unconscious Commander

Matthews. For now, Tanav helped move him to the brig, where they planted him

behind a force eld and hooked him up to an IV for calories and nutrients. Then Demi locked the room. No one really went to the brig anyways, and for

the next while at least, she really wanted to keep it that way. Perhaps it was more the morality than the speci c choices that caused her to

second-guess. Seeing how much this weighed Neera down certainly didn’t help. He stayed quiet—of course he would. In di erent circumstances, she would

have tried to break through those layers and layers of Dywen obedience and

loyalty to pry it out of him. Not right now, though. So much lay ahead of them, and getting the engine

online was critical. She let Neera do his job. Sadler too, with his impressive bit of

tinkering to tame the synth decay issues. They’d only met in passing, a brief yby

as she went down to engineering to check on progress before they all split up:

Neera to the science lab to run power diagnostics, and Sadler to unpack some of

the monitoring from equipment on his ship. Only one thing mattered now: getting to the gravity well. And even if

everything went as hoped, it still meant returning the ship to Cluster space. Which also meant court-martial. Or she could never return from the gravity well. To die inside that place she’d

tried so hard to escape…

Did it mean that nothing mattered?

Their struggles, their losses?

That was ridiculous. Demi could count so many ways that their actions

counted. Logic and numbers, though, didn’t really apply here. The gravity well

was calling her back. They’d barely escaped before. There were no guarantees

now. Court-martial or death. Facing such options could have sent Demi into a

long spiral of “How the hell did I get here?”

But she couldn’t give into that now, not when the crew needed addressing. As for Matthews’s claim of a spy aboard the Horizon, that created a whole

new issue. She didn’t know if the accusation carried weight, because most of the

crew had departed. Would a spy play nice on a journey like this?

That seemed

like the most logical outcome, given how removed they’d be from the war,

though the question remained: Could she tell anyone about that accusation?

Outside of Tanav and Lynn, seven crew members stayed. Diaz emerged with a

stunned look, and as he took his seat at the helm station, Demi made sure to at

least take a moment to put a hand on his shoulder and check in with him. Neera

reported that Macek was already down in engineering. Hikaru ran diagnostics of

the Horizon’s transport shuttle in case they needed it. Aurora sent her a message, though—she and three others wanted to talk. Immediately. As the Horizon ew at FTL to the rst convergence point, Demi considered

all the di erent priorities facing her. Technical and navigational challenges for

sure, yes, but crew morale and empathy had to be the top. Demi walked into the observation lounge, where Aurora stood with three

others behind her—Ali Kent, the Horizon’s materials expert; Karl Buiter, who

shifted between engineering and the science lab; and Casey Tarell, whose biology

role forced her into being the closest thing they had to a doctor for stretches. They could all be extremely helpful on this journey if she could just connect

with them now. “I was seconds from leaving,” Aurora said. Demi gave her a knowing nod and made eye contact with the rest of the

group—particularly Ali, whose breath quickened as her knuckles pushed against

her mouth. “Ali?

Are you okay?”

“We can’t escape it. It pulls us back.”

“That’s not true. Just breathe through this.” Maybe she should get Tanav in

here to help with this. Casey came over, and while Demi absorbed Casey’s glare,

the makeshift semi-doctor pulled Ali over to sit her on a stool. “First things rst. None of you are responsible for this,” she said. “Regardless

of the attack and what happened over there.” She pointed out to the neutral

black of FTL outside the window—which might have been the wrong direction,

but it got the point across. “Being on this journey right now is my decision. You are welcome to help, and that would be appreciated. But I understand if you

want to sit this one out. For now, it’s the best I can do. I’ll make it very clear to

Command that whether you help or not, this was not your decision. Any

assistance you provide is done purely to ensure our survival and safety.”

“Assuming we make it back,” Aurora said. “Yes. Assuming that.” Demi didn’t want to be defeatist, but everyone knew

the gravity well was dangerous. Whether or not it was more volatile than before

remained unknown, but they couldn’t assume things were safe. “I told you I intended to resign once we got to Theta Seven.” Aurora crossed

her arms at that. “Guess that’s not happening now. But I don’t want to be here. None of us want to. We need to do something about that.”

Demi had never felt physically threatened on her own ship, not even when

raiders from neighboring crafts forcefully boarded to steal supplies. Here, she

wasn’t sure of everyone’s intentions. “So, where does that leave us?” Demi asked, her voice even as she noted their

body language: clear eyes, sti backs, chins out. “Are you looking at mutiny?

I

am still technically your commanding o cer.”

Aurora leaned forward. Demi wasn’t even sure if that was a conscious choice,

but Aurora stood with tilted weight, a posture showing just a hint of aggression. “You stood right there. Several years ago,” she said quietly, “right after the

Crystal Dreams imploded. We were all worried the Horizon was next. I

remember you stood right over there”—she pointed by the window—“and told

us your priority was to protect the crew, no matter what. It was a pledge. And we

trusted you. How are you going to do that now?”

Even the toughest negotiations in the well—or with Vice Admiral Krishna,

for that matter—didn’t match this discussion. Those were military or political. This was personal. “This was supposed to be a volunteer operation,” Demi said, mind racing for

some promise or guarantee she could use to protect anyone who didn’t want to

be there. Nothing came, and instead, she went for the next best thing. “I’m

sorry. I really wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t anticipate the attack, and it’s

unfair you are here.”

“How do we know you weren’t in on the attack?” Casey shot out, stepping

back to the front. Despite being at odds, Aurora still sco ed at that. “That makes no sense,” she

said. “Demi doesn’t have anything to give the WM an advantage. We all know

the Horizon’s held together with staples and spare parts.”

This got a laugh from the group, though Demi knew what this was actually

about—and it had to be addressed. “I understand things are uncertain, so your mind wants to ll in the blanks. Right now, the WM are the blanks. I’m asking you to trust me again. My only

goal is to help the Lumersians. I don’t want anything to do with the war. Everyone knows that.” That was also her defense to Matthews about potential

spy concerns. At least there was one constant for her reputation: Demora Kim,

too tired and bitter to be a spy. Aurora stared at Demi, though nothing in her gaze gave away her intent. “We

could,” she said after a few moments, “in theory, take you to the brig right now.”

She looked over her shoulder. “And take the ship home.”

“We just left a civil war. I’m asking you to not start another one on the ship.”

Demi took in a breath. “I’m here, by myself. I’m not a threat. All I am asking for

is patience.”

“No, Demi. This isn’t fair. You shouldn’t do this to us and you know it,” Karl

said in a grizzled voice. “Turn the ship around right now. People are dying in the

Cluster. My son just graduated the academy. I stayed here out of loyalty, but

after Ark Getru, I’m not leaving him behind.”

They all nodded in agreement, and the tension radiated o them, o her own

frustrations. They needed an answer. They deserved one. But she needed a way

around them. The Horizon could continue her mission if they acted as

disgruntled bystanders. If they created active resistance, though, things could get

ugly quick. “Transmission: Kim to Neera,” she said into her comm. “How much time

until we photonic jump?”

“The jump will occur in nine minutes and thirty seconds. The engine

processes are completing their nal calibrations.”

“Are we able to stop?”

“Stopping the engine would be very dangerous at this juncture.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Neera’s response was unplanned, yet it proved helpful. They’d trust his assessment. Everyone knew deception was not his strong suit. “All right.” Demi chose her next words carefully. “You heard Neera. We can’t

stop.”

“Give us a shuttle,” Casey said. “We’ll oat back if we have to.”

Demi chose not to address that—transport shuttles didn’t have the range or

speed to pull that o , even if they convinced Hikaru to pilot it. “I’m asking a lot

from you. But we’ve been through hell together. You’ve trusted me before. I’m

putting my trust in you now. Help us. Help us keep the Horizon going. That’s

the fastest way to get us to our goal and back. “I understand the anxiety about the gravity well. I—” She took a steadying

breath, forcing herself to release a full-body hesitation. “I feel that way myself. I

wouldn’t be doing this if the Lumersians didn’t need our help. I’d like to o er a

compromise. There will be time between jumps when we can check the engine

for safety measures. Once we hit the nal convergence point before the gravity

well, we’ll meet as a group and decide together if we go in. Your choice wasn’t

honored earlier,” she said. “I’ll make sure it is this time. Will you accept?”

For several seconds, no one spoke or moved. Demi half expected them to rush

her and carry her mob-style to the brig—where maybe she would have even

shared a cell with Matthews, which would have been really interesting. But then

Aurora nodded. Then Casey and Karl followed suit. Ali looked up. “I’ll help,” she said, her voice barely there. “I’ll help with the

engine. But only because making it run smooth is our best chance of leaving that

place as fast as possible.”

“Okay,” she said, relief ooding her voice. “I’m glad to have you on board. Please check in with Neera. See what he needs. Once we have assignments for

everyone, I’ll piece together a schedule to make sure we all get rest. We do this

together.” So many thoughts swam through Demi’s mind—logistics, hopes,

fears, Chuck. And the slightest acknowledgment that the exit ramp she’d presented, well, it

made her feel better too. Facing that place again…

She still wasn’t sure she could actually do it. She couldn’t give that away, though. Not right now. “Dismissed.”

Several minutes later, she was back on the bridge, staring at navigation charts

and long-range scans, just her and Diaz, Lynn volunteering to help Neera in the

engine room. The photonic jump executed smoothly. The whole thing played out with

anticlimactic precision, given the months of failed tests and recon gurations. In

one moment, they sat at the rst convergence point, the ship rattling. The next,

they jumped over to the second. Nausea hit, as expected, and Neera reported

that he and Sadler would need some time to assess and tweak formulas before

another jump. Shortly followed by a report from Lynn stating that some kind of

pressure reset initiated for an unknown reason, an action that Neera estimated

would cost at least a day, possibly two. So they sat. At least they were out of Cluster reach. Only in the post-jump calm did Demi allow a feeling so foreign it couldn’t be

identi ed to grow. The emotions stewed, di erent bits ghting to be heard if she

would just let them through. Which she wouldn’t—not as she left the bridge,

not as she marched down the hallways of the Horizon. Once she stepped through the doors to her quarters, the dam burst, like the

act of exhaling tipped everything over. Her ngers curled into a tight st, tension

so taut that her knuckles hurt. Her hand shook, a gesture so real yet so

undigni ed that she wouldn’t even have let Tanav or Neera see it. Not exactly an

angry st, not exactly a st pump—more just emotion that had to release

somewhere. She straightened up, sweeping her hands through her short hair. Indy looked

at her, the dog’s confused stare at her raw feelings. “You slept through the most

exciting part,” she said as she gave Indy a pet. They’d done it. They got the photonic engine running. And it all happened

like it was supposed to, like they’d discussed when Chuck and Neera initiated the rst jump to return to Cluster space—all the way down to the sudden bout

of nausea and dizziness that a ected everyone but Neera and his two stomachs. Demi considered what might be ahead. She should have taken a moment for herself. A reset, an exhale, anything. But

she couldn’t. Maybe if it was a clean getaway, with no collateral damage and a

united team. Right now, the science was the least of her concerns. Camaraderie

held but remained tenuous; trust was even less so. Trust between the crew. Trust from the crew to her. And trust from her to

the crew. In the well, they’d never doubted any of those things. Yet even though

Matthews lay sedated in the brig, he succeeded in the one thing that no con ict

possibly achieved before. He sowed a seed of distrust in Demi. Of all the uncertainties ahead—would

returning Chuck’s spark actually work?

What would happen to her when the

Cluster inevitably arrested her?

Could she shield her crew from the

consequences of this choice?—the thought of a potential spy dug inside and

gripped her. She’d pressed forward on the notion that a WM spy would operate outside

their journey; their mission didn’t advance or detract anything from the

Cluster’s politics or capabilities. Months ago, they didn’t even exist in the galaxy,

and this achieved the same thing, like the Horizon got deleted from the galaxy. Except Demi knew it wasn’t that simple. For the very reasons she’d tried

lobbying Krishna and the others. If a spy was on board the Horizon, they’d

understand just how powerful the engine could be. The WM had sanctioned the

destruction of Ark Getru. What could they possibly do with photonic

technology?

Photonic jumping covered too much ground for the WM to

theoretically catch them, but their return might be an issue—if they survived. And Demi would need to get ahead of that. Demi went through the list of remaining crew in her mind. They all had

plenty of reasons to not be a spy: Tanav wanted to go home; Neera probably

couldn’t have even acted like a spy if he wanted to; Aurora wouldn’t resign if she

intended to be one; Diaz was just out of the academy. And while Sadler came

with his share of oddities—how did he have the time to learn so much about the photonic engine if he was supporting frontline duties?—he wasn’t even on

board the Horizon during the window of the supposed transmission. And there was as much reason to think that the spy had departed the ship

already—or that Matthews was wrong and the spy didn’t even exist. But with

everything in ux right now, Demi instead thought back to the moment she

learned she was getting her own command. “I have a rule that my mentor passed along to me,” Captain Hayes had said as

they talked in his brightly lit room quarters lled with xenoarcheological items. “It’s kept me going as everything changes. And I’ll tell it to you. You can choose

to use it or not.” Now he turned on his heel, presenting himself face-to-face with

her. “Your crew has to rely on you. That’s the only way you can rely on them. I

have always found that means that none of them can ever really know you. And

you should keep it that way. “I think we’re friends. And you’re loyal, and I trust you. But there are facets

of my life that I don’t share with you. Things I worry about, things that I

question. I have to keep those from you, from everyone. Everyone gets a very

speci c piece of me and that’s it.” He pointed beyond the dome, at the dark

blanket of space. “Even your rst o cer. Because they are all counting on you. And the responsibility of a captain is that your crew can never lose that faith. It

has to stay in a place where you can protect it, and only you can see it.”

Outside circumstances had already dug cracks in their trust. As captain,

Demi knew she had to do anything to preserve whatever remained. She would not say anything. Not to Neera, not to Tanav, and certainly not to

anyone else. But Chuck?

“Can you believe this shit?” she asked the dormant spark. “Bringing you

home is a real pain, you know that?

What do I get in return for this?” She

imagined Chuck’s digitized laugh at that, which quickly led to thoughts of his

robotic hand in hers. Her tone dropped, any lightness now stripped to weary,

bare bones. “I don’t know how we’re gonna get through this.”

She knew what Chuck would say in return. And for both of them, she said it

aloud. “A puzzle to be solved.” How he held such joy in the unknown. Perhaps that was what happened when pure science worked without the restrictions of

bureaucracy. “I think I’ve had enough puzzles. I would like the—”

Before she could nish, Chuck’s containment unit began playing a whirl of

screeches and chimes, all ranges of pitches. The translation device next to it came

to life, beeps and chirps of data owing into its matrix. The rst few seconds were di erent from the previous message—longer, with

a completely di erent series of pitches and beats. “Maybe you can duet with

Tanav,” Demi said as the translation process bar lled up. Chuck remained

excruciatingly static, a dot of purple oating against nothing, and though Demi

knew why there was no response, she let herself pretend for a moment that he’d

perfected a deadpan stare. The translation matrix spoke through Chuck’s synthesized voice, several

monotone words slipping in between the digital noises: ship and volatile. The message repeated two more times, and on the translation display, the

processing icon popped up. It started a third time, and Demi tapped the screen

to mute the noise. Only a handful of words—was that enough to send to Neera

and Tanav for more investigation?

She looked at the various translation charts,

di erent graphs inching toward completion, one even resetting backward from

10 percent to 3 percent. This would take some time. And they had higher priorities right now. Demi let it be for now. They could see it when the translation matrix made

more progress. Demi was already moving to get Indy that long-awaited kibble when a new

sound came from Chuck’s unit. Unlike the Lumersian message, this didn’t

arrive in digitized tones. Instead, she heard a very clear, very familiar voice. “One plus one equals two.”

Demi turned around. The activation of the vocabulator didn’t particularly shock her; that was the

whole point of hooking up devices and monitors to it. No, what caused her muscles to tense and her breath to stop came down to

the actual words themselves. One plus one equals two. The simplest, most basic mathematical equation in existence. But for Chuck

and Demi, it represented something far beyond the universal logic it de ned. That phrase marked the foundation of their relationship, a path to

understanding and an aspiration that they could get through anything thrown at

them by the universe—by any universe. The Lumersians wouldn’t use it in a distress call. Not when they’d already

built a form of translatable communication with Cluster technology. This was

something di erent. This was Chuck. What form, she didn’t know. But that thought came with a certainty. And

that opened up so many more possibilities. Something lay within that purple spark. The only way to know the how and

why behind Chuck’s voice lay with the Lumersians. And while she’d spent the

last few hours dealing with distraught crew and the implications of a spy on

board, she made a very deliberate promise to herself:

They were going to make it to the well. And before she turned over Chuck’s

spark, she was going to discover why he spoke. CHAPTER 19

NEERA

Despite the circumstances, half of the Horizon’s small crew sat in the mess hall,

surrounding Neera with the most unexpected noise:

Laughter. Joyful, uncontrolled laughter. He’d spent nearly eight years with the Horizon, and even then, joyful

laughter still took him by surprise. Another lifetime under Regent control

caused laughter to mean something harsh and cold. Life under the Regent Empire as a communications technician meant that

Neera always knew what to do, where to go. No matter how absurd or illogical. It was the way things went. Even when things were unacceptable. Even when

things were dangerous. “Hefty,” Konda said, and Neera nodded at his commanding o cer. Regent

Empire protocol very strictly emphasized respecting chain of command, and

that meant ranks and names. Konda, however, claimed that the nickname

“Hefty” was a sign of recognition for Dywen size and strength compared to

most other species. Neera didn’t believe it. But as with all Dywens under Regent rule, his career

could only advance so far. Questioning authority went against his natural

instincts, but even more so when factoring in the penalties of insubordination

within the Regent Empire. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I was up on the top platform,” he said, pointing upward as lightning lit up

large dim clouds above, “and the main encryptor circuit is just out of reach for us normal o cers.” He tapped his chest, then gestured at the other human

maintenance teams around. “You’re good with encryptors, right?”

Neera o ered a silent nod. “Hardware and software?”

Again, Neera nodded. Konda clapped his hands, then slicked his rain-soaked hair back. “Good

fortune for us, then. You go climb up there and x it. I’ll repair the hub down

here.” Neera had opened his mouth to respond, but Konda held up a hand. “Look, I know your kind love to give long explanations, but spare us and just

go.” Neera looked up, all the way at the tower’s top plateau—and at the very

long ladder alongside it. “No teleportation, either. That platform’s tiny, accuracy

is o .

So,” he said, kneeling down to look at the hub panel, “you better get

moving. Rain’s supposed to get worse in an hour. Don’t want to get caught in

it.” Konda turned and walked slowly away, his laughter echoing as he spoke into

a comm. Neera saw what this was, exactly what this was. His left hand gripped into a

st, both thumbs pushing down on adjacent knuckles, and he told himself to

push that laughter aside. Unlike here. Where that laughter was frivolous, warm, joyous. “I had this dream last night,” Macek said. He leaned forward, elbows on the

table, steam from his ramen bowl covering his face. “We did today’s photonic

jump. And then after that, the engine died, so I ate the synth, got out into space,

and jumped the Horizon myself.” He mimed two ngers as legs hopping across

the table. “I mean, literally jumped.”

The gesture prompted more raucous noise around the room. “Well, we’ll know in an hour or so if we’ll need you. Would have been less but

this reset malfunction keeps tripping,” Sadler said. He now posed two ngers

similar to Macek, except instead of hopping, they fell over. Macek put his hands

up in defense, though his grin showed that this was friendly joshing, and

probably their mutual acknowledgment that they couldn’t gure out why that

reset kept happening. “But hey, more time for ramen.”

Sometimes it felt like the Horizon itself listened and reacted to its crew. Like

here, Neera had just talked about this issue with Lynn during the space walk, and then it appeared after the rst jump. They’d handled it, charged up the

synth, and jumped again. And again the reset occurred. Something in the

exhaust system wasn’t working, but a diagnostic didn’t turn up anything. Sadler took the nal bit of noodles from his bowl. “We’re out of comm range

after that jump. So everyone get your orders in for emergency ramen bar restock

now.”

More laughter. Neera sat on one end of two circular mess hall tables pushed

together, and while Sadler sat next to him and even nudged him with his elbow,

the level of laughter didn’t seem to match the types of stories and jokes being

told. Neera chose to sit back and observe the science of Sadler’s magnetism on

the rest of the crew. Across from him, Hikaru tapped his chopsticks against his bowl. “It’s funny,

I joined the eet just to eat the most exotic alien foods out there. Then we ration

for ten years, and now I’m still sitting here eating ramen after a decade.”

“And pie,” Tanav yelled from the kitchen. He appeared from behind the

counter carrying a tray with large mitts. Groans greeted him, to which he twisted

his face. “You always underbake things,” Casey yelled, and then there it was again:

more laughter. Neera appreciated the laughter from Casey in particular—her

divide with the crew had gradually mended over these last days. “My teacher is taking a nap. But I’ll let her know what you all thought.” He

set the tray down on the counter and began cutting slices. Neera took in the

ensuing reactions around the room. Not the sounds or physical gestures, but the

feelings. That was what was happening. The feelings. The last ramen night didn’t feel like this. Even during that time, a restlessness

ran through the group, like tiny strings twisting them apart. Then after Ark

Getru, after stealing the ship, his senses became blunted. He still had his

intuitions, but the con ict between people lled the space, the tension putting

up blockades and deviations that muted the weight of his pack. However, the process of work seemed to be healing for them. Perhaps shared

tasks reminded each of them of their common bonds. Of the Horizon crew,

Neera’s closest sense of pack was to Demi and Lynn; Demi from proximity and mentorship, while Lynn’s eagerness and compassion drew him in fast. Yet Tanav

remained a mystery to him. They’d certainly worked together before and spoken socially at the mess hall,

but Tanav’s ability to put himself in front of people worked so

counterintuitively to Dywen culture that a natural gap emerged between them. They were both strangers in this universe, but they acclimated so di erently. Tanav blended in with every group, Neera struggled to discuss things beyond

science. Tanav wanted to go home, Neera wanted to stay here. Lynn, though, cared about Tanav. And that was okay, because human

bonding did not make sense. It seemed many friendships thrived with the

unknown. “I expect full judgmental feedback—” Tanav started before pausing. His gaze

fell to the other side of the mess hall; one by one, each person turned and looked

at who had appeared: Aurora. And while she’d helped with technical needs, her

divide with Demi also drove her away from what little social time they had. “You’re welcome to join,” Sadler said and stood, prompting nods across the

room. “Take my seat, I have to get back to the engine.”

Aurora stepped forward and held up a bottle. “Casey told me about this.”

Casey waved an arm at the mention. “Thought I’d bring a drink from my family

farm.” Tanav went to the counter for glasses, and they clinked on the table while

she popped open the bottle. “It’s not a lot,” she said, “so hopefully the

Lumersians learned how to brew.”

Once again laughter lled the space. Yet what overwhelmed Neera wasn’t the

sound or the smell of alcohol, but the way his senses grasped pieces locking into

place. This group was di erent now, even with the con icts and losses. But for

this sliver of time, they became cohesive again, a true pack. Aurora poured a small amount in each glass, her nail tapping the bottle when

empty. “You know, it’s actually good that Demi’s not here. Because here’s a

secret. I know I’m mad at her. But also, I think I understand her. Started to,

anyway.” She swirled the small amount of ale. “It’s not like she had a bunch of

easy choices in front of her. You put the ship, the war, the WM”—she counted

with her ngers—“the engine, the distress call… what are the odds anyone gets it right and comes out happy?

We’re here now. We might as well enjoy one

another’s company.” She held up the glass. “To survivors?”

Casey held up her glass and pointed at Neera. “Or, as Neera might say, to

pack?”

Perhaps they all felt it too. Normally, Neera wouldn’t partake in the

dehydrating nature of alcoholic beverages. But this was a small amount to go

with a nice moment. He held up a hand as everyone looked at him. “A moment

has come to mind. Wakes for our fallen friends are typical for this crew. We have

not had time to organize one for Ensign Ayenew.” Silence now hit the group,

though Neera could see thoughtful, wistful looks around. “Ayenew told me that

his parents could not travel to space much because of an autoimmune condition. That is why he dreamed of a life in the stars.” Neera chose not to mention that

that desire was also probably why Ayenew lingered for a view from the docking

tube when the WM ships attacked. “He achieved his dream, and that should be

commended.”

The table called out a round of “to Ayenew,” and Neera swallowed the bitter

drink, though he immediately followed it with a glass of water. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” a new voice said. Neera sensed the arrival a

split second before it arrived. Being around Demi since Ark Getru meant a constant emotional thrum, like

shifting frequencies hitting Neera’s senses. If he could communicate such a

thing to Tanav, the former musician probably would have even been able to

identify the consistent notes that reverberated. They all watched as Demi waited politely with a tablet in hand, and Neera

saw she met eyes with Aurora. Hikaru missed this unspoken communication

and instead yelled a rowdy “Come join us!”

Demi waited for Aurora to nod, then came over. “I see you’re all out of shots. But that’s okay, because I have something here that needs some thinking. I was

on my way to do nal astrometrics calibration for this next jump when I saw this

nished.” She held up the device in her hands. “A new Lumersian transmission

arrived a few days ago. The translation matrix was being stubborn with it.” She

pulled over an empty seat from an adjacent table and tapped the tablet to display

the message’s audio waveform as Tanav served pie slices. It wasn’t surprising that Demi ran the translation matrix privately. The

engine and all its issues kept Neera busy enough, and he wouldn’t have had time

to examine the matrix processes regardless. But he had spoken to Demi quite

regularly during that span, and she hadn’t mentioned this at all. Information

owed freely between them, or it was supposed to. The feeling marked the opposite of when people laughed at his joke. In fact,

Neera battled that unsettling feeling several times over recent days, from the very

decision to steal the Horizon to the sting of losing Ayenew to the way Demi

simply did not mention Matthews in the brig. And the sense of pack that had

appeared moments ago, Demi’s hurricane of feelings set it all out of balance,

even if no one realized it. Neera’s sense of stability built up over six months of working on the

photonic engine in Cluster space, and though this was the only way to keep the

engine going, everything else started to splinter. A new voice played from the tablet. “The gravity well continues to increase in

volatility. A new ship has become trapped. It belongs to one of the physical

universes…” The word abruptly cut into several quick, varied pitches. Neera

caught Tanav’s look at that knowledge, a raised eyebrow in an otherwise calm

expression. “It appears the paths to those other physical universes did not fully

collapse.”

“That’s very… speci c,” Tanav said. He dashed back, his speed picking up as

he grabbed utensils from the kitchen counter. “Lynn can help with the missing

parts.”

“There’s one more thing,” Demi said. “Something happened.” Demi’s eyes

locked onto the fork in her hand. “It was just after the rst jump. I had just

gotten back to my quarters.” The usual edge to her voice softened, and the rare

appearance of vulnerability from their otherwise stoic captain needled at Neera’s

instincts. “I’m honestly still not sure what to make of it because it only

happened once.”

A beep from the ship’s comm station interrupted Demi. “Matthews to Kim. Answer your comm.”

None of them spoke. None of them moved. Any remaining sense of pack shredded away, leaving only a void. Neera

looked at the slices of pie set up around the table, none of them being eaten. “Matthews to Kim. I repeat: answer your comm.”

“What the hell?” Casey yelled. She stood up, her knees banging on the table,

and any jokes about Tanav’s baking skills seemed like they came from a di erent

lifetime. She looked at Aurora. Then Tanav. Then Macek, then Hikaru, then

Neera before nally landing on Demi. And Demi, that familiar uncomfortable

thrum now over owed, spikes of emotions coming from behind her very still

face. “What is this?

Matthews is on board?

How?

Who knew about this?”

The comm system beeped. “Matthews to Kim,” he said, a growing snarl in his

words. “Somehow I am in the brig, there’s no one here, and I am very, very

angry. Answer your goddamn comm.”

The word brig got an audible gasp from all around the table, and Demi stood

up, all eyes trained on her. How was Matthews awake?

They’d given him sustained doses of triapdimone

and a caloric IV to keep him stable while sedated, and yet here he was—not just

awake, but with access to comms, no less. Demi had asked Neera to stay quiet

about this, and with all the work on the photonic engine, his mind had plenty to

occupy itself. His orders were to move forward. He followed that. Now everyone knew. And getting them to follow additional orders would be

very messy. The softness that painted her brow and cheeks just moments earlier now

shifted to sti and cool. “He never left. I had to make a choice.” She sat up, and

Neera could practically see the change in her thinking, her internal operations. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Oh my god.” Aurora’s voice lled the mess hall. Neera never heard it hit that

level of volume or force. “Is that all you have to say?

‘It wasn’t easy.’ You’ve been

lying about him the whole time?

It’s like, ever since we got back to the Cluster,

you can’t stop lying. Is that what it is?”

Casey shook her head continuously, her hands rubbing her close-cropped

black hair. “You asked us to trust you. You had a whole big speech about it.” She

tapped her chest, then pointed to Aurora. “Should we go get Karl?

He was there too, and he’s, what, o doing whatever task in the science lab because you asked

him to?”

“Sadler to Neera.”

Sadler’s voice stopped everyone, and now all the attention that had been on

Demi turned to Neera. The action created a queasiness, much more than

Aurora’s family ale. “Neera here,” he nally said. “Can you get back to engineering?

Bring Macek and Aurora too. We’re close

to going online, I need the hands.” Sadler laughed to himself. “And eyes. Probably ears too.”

“Acknowledged,” Neera said. He slowly stood up. “Macek. Aurora.” The

words came out quietly. “Your assistance in engineering would be—”

“Matthews to Kim. I’m just going to be repeating this until you show up,” he

said, a condescending singsong lilt carrying his words. “I wake up here behind a

force eld with a comm link at my feet. Which was helpful, because someone

disabled the one in my uniform. So I got nothing better to do. Unless everyone is

dead and it’s just me.”

“Who gave him the comm?” Hikaru asked, his normally boisterous voice

now muted. A sudden change fell over everyone. Seconds ago, attention was focused on

Demi, and now everyone looked at one another. Neera did not need to activate

any pack senses to feel the level of suspicion rise in the room. There were only so

many of them on board. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Demi. But everyone else, half of whom weren’t in the mess hall?

Who could break

past the brig’s locks?

“Macek. Aurora. We should get to engineering. We still have a job—”

“No. You turn this ship around and jump right back.” Aurora’s eyes ared

with each word. “You promised us a choice. Here is my choice. Turn. Around.”

“A lot of things are happening at once right now,” Demi said. “You can’t just

stop the photonic engine during its ramp-up process. But we all deserve a

conversation about this. Matthews included. I will start with him. Then bring

everyone into it. But after this next jump.”

Demi was correct. She’d asked him that before, just a few days ago. “Aurora,

you have seen how the engine works. I believe you will recall the details of energy

storage and dissipation.”

Aurora’s breath was heavy enough to hear, a steady rhythm like a ticking

clock. “Yeah,” she nally said. “I have seen that.”

“Demi,” Neera said, “calibration must also complete at astrometrics prior to

jumping.”

“All right.” Demi nodded. She stood and picked up the tablet o the table. “This still matters. Matthews matters. The jump matters.”

“The comm matters,” Hikaru said. “That too,” Demi said. Neera had seen her through all phases of the past

several years, as neighboring ships imploded, as Chuck sacri ced himself, as she

discovered the state of war. Somehow, none of those moments matched the way

her cheeks drained of color and eyes glistened now. “I am asking everyone to be

practical right now. There are always hours after a jump when processes restart. We will jump, I will talk to Matthews, and then I will call an all-hands right

here.” Demi curled up one side of her mouth and tapped the plate in front of

her. “Tanav can bake pie.”

No one laughed. No one even smiled at that. “Macek, Aurora,” Neera said. “I don’t trust you anymore,” Aurora said. Those words— ve short, curt words said with at venom—stopped Demi’s

emotional thrum. No, it was still there. It just changed, going from spikes of

extremes to a dull, low hum. “You two handle the engine. I’m going to my quarters.” Aurora stomped out

of the room. “You think you can x everything with a big speech about surviving and crew

and trust and stu ,” Casey said. “You know how I complain about my family?

They say the same things about GCF duty. Same intent, di erent names,

di erent nouns. It’s always the excuse. It’s always the cover-up. No. You cannot

keep breaking this. At some point, it doesn’t repair. At some point, things

become permanent.” She followed Aurora’s actions, though she didn’t say

anything about where she was headed. Macek walked over to Neera. “We still gotta science,” he said quietly. He

patted Neera on the back and motioned forward—though he didn’t say

anything to the rest of the crew. Neera nodded and gave one last look at Hikaru and Tanav before landing on

Demi. Her chin dipped as their eyes connected, and though Demi was the

person he trusted most in this universe, he didn’t know what to think about

anything right now. The only thing he could rely on was science. “Yes we do,” he said to Macek. CHAPTER 20

TANAV

Hikaru excused himself from the mess hall shortly after Neera and Macek left. Tanav got the sense that the pilot didn’t really know what to think, given the

circumstances, and though he said he had to go repair a conduit outside of stellar

cartography, that might have only been an excuse. And Demi didn’t question

him about the comm link, which meant that either she didn’t think he did it or

she didn’t want to deal with that right now. He did, though, pause for a bite of pie, followed by a “hmph” and a thumbs-

up before leaving. Now Tanav was alone with Demi. The Matthews situation wasn’t new to

him; he’d helped put the commander in the brig, and Demi’s logic for doing so

made sense in a desperate moment. That still didn’t ease things right now. “I wonder,” Demi said slowly, “if I got it all wrong.” She didn’t look at him;

instead she stared across the mess hall at the dark blanket outside the window. Tanav had asked Demi if she was all right several times recently, yet there was

no need to here. Those cracks that he’d seen before, they nally broke. “I don’t blame them for feeling this way,” she continued. “If I were in their

boots, maybe I would too. I just wish there had been a way to do right by

everyone. I don’t think it’s possible anymore.” Tanav remained silent, allowing

Demi to get these thoughts out before anything lured them back into hiding. “Maybe it’s time I realized that.”

Her comm came alive once more. “Matthews to Kim. You alive out there?

Anyone?”

“Someone gave that to him. Someone is more loyal to the Cluster than to

me.” His voice triggered her sense of duty to kick in, a harder shell coming over

the glimpse of vulnerability. “I need to deal with this. It’s my responsibility.”

She stood up, and though her face remained sti and clear, her shoulders still

slumped under the pressure of everything. “Astrometrics,” Tanav said. That

caused her to turn. “Neera said something needed to be done there.”

“Yeah. Calibration before the jump.” Each word built on the previous,

reforming back to her usual self. “A captain needs to authorize the calibrations in

astrometrics when jumping to uncharted coordinates.”

“I just heard you tell everyone to focus on the jump. You should too. Get us

going. I’ll talk to Matthews.” That last part came out unexpectedly. From what

Tanav knew about Matthews, his experience wasn’t exactly a match for the

commander’s way of thinking. “I don’t want you getting dragged into military politics. This is my

responsibility—”

“You know what?” Tanav said. “Yes, it is. And I’m saying that to you as a

friend. Not as your subordinate. But Matthews can wait, what, thirty minutes?

You need to get that astrometrics thing done before the jump. Then have at it

with him. Okay?

I’ll occupy him so he stops bugging you while you handle the

science part.”

Demi’s eyes narrowed as several seconds passed. “I keep saying you’re a good

o cer.”

Tanav snorted at the comment, a reaction that surprised both of them. He

turned to the exit, though she remained still. “This isn’t an o cer’s duty,” he

said, and he left to give her a quiet moment alone. A one-on-one discussion with Matthews should have intimidated Tanav. It

didn’t, though. Talking was much di erent than being at a bridge station or

xing busted ship hardware. Besides, Matthews didn’t scare him as much as

Thaddea. Matthews was in the brig, behind a force eld. Years ago, with Thaddea, there

were no such protections. Back then, he’d walked slowly, stepping over waiting

delivery parcels and forgotten children’s toys lining the walls, toward their

apartment door at the end of the hall. Apartment was a bit of a misnomer. The space could barely contain all their

musical gear and practical necessities like wearables and cookware. Sometimes it

even felt like two people was too much, and that the very architecture wanted to

spit something out, whether it was a guitar amp or bookshelf or one of them. Thaddea stepped out, though her failure to notice him showed it was

coincidental. She closed the door behind her, a manual lightweight metal panel

that caused sound to reverb unnaturally o it. It clicked shut with an echo, and

she faced him. They locked eyes, and the way her jaw tensed and her shoulders slumped told

him that she’d hoped to avoid him. Her broad cheeks ared, the cheap yellow

tint of the building’s lighting making her pale skin and black hair seem

unnatural. This stance proved di erent from their other recent arguments. This looked like defeat. Tanav walked slowly, reminding himself to stick to his prepared speech, to do

this—not just for him, but for them. As a couple, as a musical duo, as working

adults in an unfriendly caste-based society. “You accepted without telling me.” She didn’t even say hello. Her words

tightened, a sign that her anxieties tipped into anger. “How could you?”

He needed to respond constructively, to tamp down the emotions stirring

within her. “If you’ve seen our funding account lately,” Tanav said, “we’re not

exactly lled for spending.”

“That is why we are working musicians,” she said, icking a nger upward to

accentuate her metaphor. “We start from the streets. Because it matters to people

like us.”

People like us. Now she was really ghting dirty; Thaddea knew that us didn’t

always include Tanav, no matter how much he tried to distance himself from the Lexin Industries empire. “This contract is work.”

“A Vicon Corporation cruise?

They’re the worst of the worst. Even your

family hates them.” Exactly. That was what he wanted to say to her. But he

wouldn’t. He couldn’t give that thought life. And maybe he shouldn’t have

improvised. “The contract doesn’t even pay that well.” Thaddea’s voice changed,

every syllable enunciating perfectly for extra emphasis. “For the same amount of

humiliation, you could get more funding from your parents in ve minutes and

be done with it.”

“What does that mean?”

He shouldn’t have said that. He knew it immediately, because it would lead

to an argument they’d had for years—an argument that only grew in intensity. He probably could have predicted her words, the air, the very shape her breath

would take before they even came out. “Once a month, they make a transmit. They make you feel bad, they justify doing stu like, I don’t know, deforesting

an uninhabited planet. ‘Sure, someone will gure out a replacement in a few

centuries,’ they’ll say. It’s a test to see if you’re on their side. Then they go to

‘There’s a spot for you in Lexin Industries, but someone will eventually take it.’

And repeat. They suck you into their game. You’re so stubborn in your belief

that they don’t rule your life that you let them rule your life.”

Thaddea had talked about how she didn’t need a life anything close to the

upper caste of Tanav’s heritage. And for many years—in fact, every time except

for the last few weeks—Tanav believed that about himself too, that he saw things

in ways that his family never might comprehend. But in that moment, he stuck

to his script, eventually going to the backup plan of taking on the contract

himself. Landing him here. In this universe. With Demi and the Horizon and the

Cluster. With Lynn. And a civil war and now a showdown with Commander

Jonathan Matthews. He supposed that moment felt easier than this showdown. Life with

Thaddea hit a tipping point when a fracture felt inevitable. But here, he just had

to tell an angry senior o cer to wait a little bit for a photonic jump. Matthews

might take it badly, but that’s why the brig had a force eld. Besides, Tanav was a

eld commission with a fake title, so Matthews wasn’t technically his commanding o cer. Tanav watched as the brig doors slid open. Even with a

glowing force eld separating Matthews, he gave a heavy stare as if they’d stood

nose to nose. “Finally,” Matthews said. He sat up from the cell’s small bed and held up his

comm. “You leave this for me?”

Tanav half considered claiming that he did. It would have twisted the

conversation, possibly gotten Matthews on his side. But instead, he played it

straight. Antagonizing the commander right now wouldn’t accomplish anything

but make things worse for Demi. Who did leave the comm for him?

No one among the survivors was a military

loyalist, especially with every revelation about the war. Karl probably came

closest, but he’d talked about “doing something” to prevent things like Ark

Getru. This didn’t really seem to play into that. “I didn’t,” Tanav said. “I just came with a message.”

They’d never formally met before—Matthews had talked with quite a bit of

the crew, but always at various stations. And since Tanav’s job was a little more

uid than that, nothing ever pulled them together. Matthews seemed to

recognize the same time. Lynn, though, had said that Matthews was “a bit of a dick.”

“A message. Right, right. You’re the pop star, huh?

You’re not even on the

o cial GCF crew roster. Just coming along for the ride?

Got your free uniform

and everything.” Matthews chuckled, living up to Lynn’s description. He held

up the comm link. “So, where’s Captain Kim?

See, I still call her by her rank

even though I know she’s going to lose it.”

“Her message is that she is making preparations for our next photonic jump.”

Tanav shifted his weight, and beneath him, the brig’s deck plates creaked at the

movement. Matthews raised an eyebrow, nodding as his lips pursed. “The engine is

online?”

That changed his attitude. “It is. In fact”—Tanav went to the nearest monitor and cycled through the

various department status screens until he got to engineering—“in ten, fteen

minutes?

Maybe thirty.”

“The long-range comm array. Have any of the engineers touched that?”

That was a weirdly speci c question—and not something Tanav was

prepared for. He went with sincerity rather than dodging or defense. “You’d have

to ask Neera. Or Sadler.”

“Who’s Sadler?

That name wasn’t on the ship roster.” His eyes scanned

Tanav up and down. “You’re the one from another universe. You want to go

home.”

“I don’t see how that’s important right now.”

“Ah, something’s missing,” he said as he rubbed his face. “You’re not the spy,”

he said, turning back to him. That phrase made no sense to Tanav. “I told you I didn’t give you the comm.”

“Kim didn’t tell you. Okay. I wonder if she told anyone on the crew. Where

are we?

Were there any recent WM attacks?” Tanav was kind of o ended that

Matthews didn’t think he had the abilities to be a spy. But given his history, how

he got on the Horizon, and his goal of returning to his home, he wasn’t exactly

the type to t that niche. “The freighter at Theta Seven. The other ships that

arrived.”

“Security ships defended Theta Seven,” Tanav explained. “Last we heard, the

comm tower and docking tube were the only damage.”

“Quick strikes. In and out. It’s the WM’s advanced FTL engine.” Despite

Matthews’s very confrontational attitude to Demi, he seemed much more

interested in the practicalities of this moment. Which Tanav was happy to

oblige; he was just a stalling measure, after all. Though his mind circled back to the other key point Matthews just made. Because if the whole spy thing had nothing to do with the comm, where did it

come in?

“What do you mean, the spy?

As in, a WM spy?” Matthews nodded,

and suddenly things tilted in a way that Tanav didn’t fully understand. “Why are

you telling me this?”

“Because I need some way to get some sense into Kim. She’s so obsessed with

getting to the Lumersians, she doesn’t realize what else is at stake here.”

That was a strange thing to say, given that Demi saw the Ark Getru footage

and received regular war reports. But Tanav himself had seen it: too many demands, too many factors, not enough ways to wrap her arms around the

Horizon when everything else disintegrated. If Matthews was right, someone from the WM might have taken advantage

of that. But also, Matthews might be trying to manipulate him with half truths and

rumors. Tanav could walk away now and let Demi take over later. Or he could

retaliate and see what else Matthews revealed. “So you don’t think I’m the spy?”

he asked. “That’s awfully generous.”

Before Matthews could reply, a distinct chirp announced a ship-wide

broadcast, followed by Demi’s voice. “Attention crew. I’ve con rmed with

engineering that we’re ready for the next jump. We are ahead of schedule, so

thank you for pulling together.” Diaz, Sadler, and Karl didn’t witness the mess

hall incident. Had word spread to them about Matthews?

And Lynn, she was

probably still asleep, given her late shift—would he have to tell her when she

woke up?

“Countdown commencing from sixty seconds.” Matthews absorbed

this information, the lines on his face becoming deeper with each passing word. “Once we emerge from the jump, we will be out of communications range with

the Cluster. I thank you all for taking this journey with me. And…” Her voice

cracked, which caused Matthews to turn his head. “I know there are things to

resolve.” That pushed Matthews further, and his hand covered his snarky

chuckle. “I promise we’ll get to that as soon as we safely arrive at the next

convergence point. I owe you that. Thirty seconds to jump. Kim out.”

Matthews’s expression shifted, and his hand rubbed over his close-cropped

hair. “You might want to sit down,” Tanav said, taking a chair at the nearest

control console. “I think I’ll stand.” Right when Matthews nished, the entire room shook, a

single harsh jolt that the ship’s dampeners couldn’t overcome. Tanav watched as

Matthews scanned the brig, rst at his cell, then over at him. “That?

That’s why

—” he started, before he fell to his knees, one hand on his stomach. “We’ve found that photonic jumps induce dizziness and nausea. It’s worse if

you’re standing,” Tanav said, and while his own stomach rolled a bit from the

jump, he masked it all by sitting up straighter and pushing a smile out for

Matthews’s sake. “Not as bad if you sit.”

“Okay.” Matthews took in a slow, even breath as he curled over. “A good

commanding o cer listens when crewmen o er advice.”

“It’ll pass. Give it a minute or two. But hey”—Tanav gestured at Matthews,

arms up—“I’m just a pop star.” Lynn had never used that term before, but he’d

run with it. “You don’t have to take my medical—”

The ship-wide channel beep came through again. Which Tanav expected—

Demi usually followed any long-distance travel with arrival con rmations. Her voice, though, came with a completely di erent tone, hurried words like

her mouth couldn’t keep up with her thoughts. “This is Kim. A Withdrawal

Movement craft is on sensors. It appears to have been waiting for us.” Despite

Matthews’s nausea, he looked up and he grunted a string of curse words under

his breath. “They’ve got weapons trained on us. I’m trying to—What is this?”

That got Matthews to stand. So did Tanav. They met gazes. “The spy,” Tanav

said. “Who did you think it was?

Who could—” Matthews shushed him and

held a nger up as Demi continued. “I’m locked out of security systems. Diaz, hard to port. Shields are down. Power systems are—Everyone, if you can hear me, get a weapon and lock down. Power is going o ine system by system. The WM is closing in. I don’t know if

—”

The comms went silent. Tanav looked at the monitors across the way, but instead of the usual

windows of di erent department and system status, a ashing red list kept

blinking with bold letters above it:

SYSTEM UNAVAILABLE

“What the hell did we get into?” Matthews asked, one arm out to hold

himself steady. Before Tanav could respond, the lights around the room ticked

o one by one, gradually darkening the brig. Shortly after, emergency power

kicked in, a low level of illumination from around the oor’s perimeter. But in front of him, the semitransparent blue of Matthews’s force eld began

to fade, and the hum of its generator went quiet. The same overwhelmed panic

Tanav felt on the bridge returned—possibly even worse, and de nitely faster, despite being near dark, as opposed to the endless ashing displays of Lynn’s

comm station. Now Matthews stood clear in front of him, the shimmer of the

energy barrier completely gone, and to test it, Matthews put his hand through

the empty space, waving it back and forth. “I don’t think you’re the spy,” Matthews said. “But if you are, you have a

chance to get me out of your way right now.” In the dim light, he turned and

put both hands above his head. “If you’re with the WM, then you would have

prepared. You would have read my pro le. You know I am far more capable than

most of the scientists and engineers aboard this ship. The WM would have

supplied you with a weapon. The brig also has a weapons locker for emergencies

on the back corner. You’d know how to open it. Here is your chance to take me

out.”

Tanav stared at the silhouette in front of him. “What?

Why are you doing

this?”

“Because I was pretty sure you weren’t the spy.” Matthews stepped past him

to unlock the weapons cabinet he just mentioned. “I needed proof. And since

you’re not, I need your help. Power’s out, which means doors are locked, but we

need to get to stellar cartography. Kim doesn’t know the entire war depends on

it.”

CHAPTER 21

NEERA

Every monitor, every status, every graph simply vanished. Then the lights went

out, leaving Neera, Sadler, and Macek with only the bright pink of contained

synth. Emergency lighting activated, a row of dim yellow-white light circling the

oor. “What happens if the photonic engine loses power?” Sadler asked as he waved

scanners over it. A question only a true engineer would ask in the face of a disaster, Neera

thought. Even with the WM doing something to the Horizon, the rst thing

Sadler focused on was the engine. A quick look at Sadler’s scanner prompted a

rush of relief, all numbers coming in as expected. “The power levels are properly diminishing in the engine,” Neera said,

pointing to the scanner’s holographic projection. “The power cycle will be stable

once it completes, though the ship will remain static without any propulsion.”

“Where can I help?” Macek asked as he came over. Neera looked over to Sadler. “I think we’ll need emergency supplies to start,”

Sadler said before gesturing at the synth generator, the pink glow casting all sorts

of harsh lines over him. “And this?” Another set of numbers projected out of the

tablet. “It’s basically a containment unit right now?”

“The numbers appear to be that way.” Neera looked around at the room, the

creeping silence providing an engineer’s worst fears. Normally, the rhythmic

hums of power systems and the rattle of propulsion o ered a soothing din of normalcy. Without that, a stark emptiness took over the entire ship. “Our own

safety may be in question, but the equipment is stable for now, if nothing else.”

His words were meant to bring levity to the situation. Sadler didn’t respond,

though across the space, Macek hu ed a laugh while opening the back panel’s

emergency equipment hatch. “Yeah,” Sadler said, his tone tightening in ways that Neera had never heard

before, a frigidity to Sadler’s usual upbeat manner. The projected charts

changed, now a bubble of blue-green glow as he held up a tablet. Through the

semitransparent holograms, Neera saw him squint as his eyes darted back and

forth before staying on a sudden ashing icon. Neera tried to decipher it, but the

message blinked too quickly to be legible—though even from his angle, he could

tell that the hologram showed a rotating ship rather than the photonic engine. Was that Sadler’s own light freighter?

Sadler’s posture gave away that something was de nitely wrong—even more

wrong than just being in a silent engine room. “Damn it. You gotta protect the engine and the generator at all costs. I need

to—”

A blaring alarm cut him o , and Neera ran back to the engine, though its

main control console remained dark. He grabbed a scanner o the equipment

desk, knocking over something from the table that would require cleaning up

once proper lighting returned, and he waved it over the di erent engine

subsystems. He’d spoken too soon. The conversion pressure chart showed too many bars

over the acceptable safety limit. “The conversion pressure is at unexpected

danger levels,” Neera projected over the alarm’s incessant buzzing. Sadler yelled

something back, but when Neera faced him, Sadler’s tablet went dark, and with

it, Neera’s poor low-light vision failed to track him. “Your words were not louder

than the alarm. They require repeating.” Neera’s voice got lost in the warning

noises, the engine’s independent emergency system yelling that it needed

immediate attention. Through the dark, several clanging sounds squeezed between the alarm’s rise

and fall, and even if Neera could nd Sadler, he likely would not have been able

to convey exactly what to do in case of a conversion overpressure. Chuck would have known what to do, though. The engine’s fail-safe

containment was invented by Photonic Being #910047.

Now Neera had to remember. He moved in quick, direct movements, tapping the scanner to project its

ndings. The results hovered, holographic digits and charts that o ered some

semblance of light—enough for Neera to nd the di erent clasps on the engine’s

base. He opened a panel, then felt inside for the mechanical levers and buttons

embedded in the hardware. A sharp heat singed the tip of his nger; con rming

thermal overload in the system. The guts of the hardware ashed with a series of

sparks and pops, and Neera shut his eyes, a desperate recall to pull up the manual

exhaust reroute protocol. He ipped switches and rotated levers when Macek arrived, the small

cylindrical ashlight mounted on his shoulder shining a beam light. Though

Neera was nearly done, he would take whatever help he could get. Macek took

out another ashlight, compressing it from a handheld tube into a wearable

form that he attached to Neera’s shoulder. Neera ipped a nal switch, and as it

went, a chain of events started, groans and creaks from alloys responding to

shifting heat. But most importantly, all the values on the display descended, text

shifting from red to yellow until nally green. The alarm nally went quiet. The rest of the heat could naturally dissipate, allowing the engine to become

nothing more than a meticulously crafted structure. “Thank you for the light.”

Neera stood up, surrounded again by unnerving silence—though strange creaks

of metal echoed from the maintenance tubes. “Conversion rate is stabilizing,” Macek said, waving a scanner by the

photonic engine’s intake chamber. “I think we’re in the clear.”

“I am hopeful that the emergencies have passed,” Neera said with a nod. “The engine has never undergone a test of power loss at the end of the cycle. I

believe this is related to the excess synth energy requiring additional burn-o .

More diagnostic data should help prevent this in the future, but—” He

squinted, trying to see any movement in the dim space in front of him. “There

are likely bigger issues we have right now. Sadler, can you access ship status?”

Sadler didn’t respond. Neera waited several seconds, then called out again. Nothing. He turned, the ashlight beam cutting through the darkness, catching bits of

oating dust and particles. He scanned from left to right, then did a secondary

sweep. No sign of Sadler. Or a struggle, or anything unusual, for that matter, except

now that he thought about it, his sense of Sadler diminished—though it faded

so gradually that it was nothing like Ayenew’s abrupt end. Sadler simply

vanished, and outside of the last tablet he’d held, his equipment remained where

it had been when the power cut out. Neera walked the perimeter of the engine

room in measured steps, the Regent Empire’s protocol for sweeping a space

activating like muscle memory. This may have been the only time he was

thankful for the rigidity his old life instilled in him, and halfway through his

scan, he saw it:

An access panel for maintenance crawl spaces. But only department heads had access to the tools that unlocked each

section’s panel. No one other than Neera could have opened that panel, and he

usually only did so for authorized repair work. Macek came up next to Neera, their intersecting ashlight beams lighting up

the open hatch. “Did Sadler go through there?” Macek asked. “It appears to be so.” Neera knelt down and peered inside. “I do not know

why.”

CHAPTER 22

DEMI

Matthews mentioned a spy. And she should have taken it much more seriously. So much more seriously. Instead, she had brushed those thoughts aside, focused

on getting to the gravity well, and just assumed that any WM interference would

come after they got back to Cluster space. Or perhaps believing that was simply easier than acknowledging that she

could have never kept the war away from the Horizon. And because of her choice, everything around Demi died. First, the data table went. Then status holograms on the captain’s chair

zzled out, soon followed by display monitors at helm and comms. The ceiling

lights were next, though emergency oor lighting activated to give what might

have been mood lighting in other circumstances. Finally, the small control panels on either side of the captain’s chair blinked

several times before fading, probably on a di erent power circuit than the rest of

the bridge. “Try to get something going,” she said as she passed Ensign Diaz at the helm. She marched to the double doors between the bridge and the hall. The silence

ampli ed every noise she made, from her palm slapping against the door to her

ngers tapping the control panel next to it. “Come on,” she whispered under her

breath. “I’ve checked each station,” Diaz said. “Nothing.”

“Ensign, I’m sorry to keep bringing you into unprecedented circumstances.”

At the data table, his silhouette moved in response. Her head tilted to speak into her uniform’s comm. “Transmission: Kim to Neera.” No chirp of connection,

no usual stilted reply from Neera. “Transmission: Kim for shipwide broadcast.”

Every attempt failed. And she should know that. In situations of complete

power failure, only emergency lighting and life support activated on a backup

system. Everything else completely shut down. She began to pace at the back of

the bridge, sifting through the details of this catastrophe to nd some way out. They arrived at the fourth convergence point and immediately spotted a

Withdrawal Movement ship—one far smaller than the Horizon, but much

larger than an individual transport shuttle. A freighter of some kind, repurposed

into a combat-ready vessel by the WM. This deep into space, this speci c of a

location, they had to have known where to go—more speci cally, this jump

point would have been a strategic choice, given the Horizon was not out of

communication range. Someone had given them a heads-up. The WM’s rumored FTL tech—Demi had heard about this in brie ngs,

Matthews had mentioned it, but Command never con rmed it. This far out?

It

had to be. This spy knew enough to calculate the WM’s travel time while syncing up the

Horizon’s jump schedule. Which wasn’t set—they had minor delays and reset

issues making the whole thing uid. The thoughts coalesced, forming into a single epiphany, the only logical cause

behind all of this, an answer so obvious, and yet she’d refused to see it before,

because its implications would mean so much more. Someone betrayed her. Someone betrayed the crew, and she completely

missed it. Worse, she knew this might happen. “Captain?” Diaz asked. If it was Diaz, she should access the emergency weapons stored beneath her

chair right now. But as her eyes adjusted to the low light, subtle lines lled in his

silhouette. His posture was tense, panicked, and his voice was vulnerable and

questioning. Had Diaz been the spy, his opportunity to capture her, threaten her, or do

something came and went. She couldn’t rule him out with absolute certainty, but

enough that she’d take him at face value for now. Demi pushed the whodunit aside; reasons and motives were secondary to

security and safety. She refocused on the facts—they had no power, and the WM

ship hadn’t red. Which meant they were possibly going to board. Could she stop them?

Staying on the bridge wouldn’t do anything; its open layout created minimal

tactical cover. She had to assume that the rest of the crew faced similar problems

with their doors. Neera might have access to equipment for emergency unlocks,

but not the rest. “Ensign Diaz,” she started, when a noise interrupted her. With all systems

down, the usual cadence of underlying rumbles and hums went away, though a

rattle swept through the bridge. On a ship with power, a combination of shields

and inertial dampeners mitigated impacts large and small. Here, the slightest of

impacts caused movement in the smallest gaps between bolts and plate, displays

and wiring. “What was that?” Diaz asked, his voice a far distance from the bravado he’d

displayed upon boarding. “Something’s bumped into the Horizon. A collision or force just enough to

—” Demi quickly put the pieces together. “A docking tube.” Which would

require someone to manually churn the Horizon’s mechanisms down in the

observation lounge. Someone was letting them in. Names and faces ashed in front of her. Aurora’s home sector aligned with

the WM. Casey carried lifelong spite against the Cluster. Hikaru and Karl

doubled as technicians over the last ten years, they’d know how to do it. So

would Neera. So would Sadler. Demi fought to center herself, reminding herself that who didn’t matter right

now. They needed to buy time and try to thwart the invaders. Especially if they were after the photonic engine. Demi scanned the bridge, low lighting throwing the familiar into harsh

shadows, a nal sweep of any possible way to create localized power for the

doors. Neera would have known—Grant did know, having done this trick once during a power outage in the well. But she didn’t; her background in stellar

cartography didn’t apply here. That left only one option. “Diaz,” Demi said, “we’re going into the walls.”

Demi knelt down behind the captain’s chair and opened a back panel behind

the base. From inside, she pulled out a brick-size box, a single blinking green

light indicating that its independent battery remained active. At least something still worked. She planted her hand at over its side, a white

line tracing down from her ngertips to wrist to verify her handprint. A small

yellow square appeared on the box’s surface, and Demi held it up to her eye to

commence a retinal scan. Several more con rming chimes rang out, and the lid

opened up. Medical supplies. Emergency power packs. Access scanners for maintenance

hatches. Utility backpack. She handed that to Diaz, who began packing, though

she kept the last part for herself:

A gun—small, light power, limited ammunition. But a weapon, nonetheless. Court-martial or death. She supposed she was still on that path, though she

didn’t expect it to go this particular way. “Our goal,” she said as she resealed the emergency case, “is to get to

engineering to safeguard the photonic engine. We’ll take a quick look at each

deck to see if we can get any sense of head count. Ours or theirs.” She slid it back

into its original spot, everything restored to exactly the way it was. “What about—” Diaz started, but she put up a nger as she marched over to

a seamless panel by the doors. “We don’t know where anyone is right now,” she said. “So, we work with

known quantities.” She held a scanner to the wall, running it over horizontally

until she heard three consecutive beeps. The panel pressed in, then slid up, a

battery-powered motor providing emergency entrance to the maintenance shafts

between the ship’s sections. In that yawning metal tunnel lay her path to the rest of the ship—and the

crew. But among the crew, a traitor. And that meant that this was no longer her

ship. The war had won. Maybe it always would have. Demi ducked her head in, boots clacking on the grated metallic oor, and she

squeezed in as best she could in a low crouch, Diaz in tow. The lack of power

made for a frigid environment, and a shiver ran through her as she attached a

ashlight to her shoulder. She tapped it on and the space ahead lit up. As her

eyes adjusted, she noted the paths: one straight ahead, two shafts o to the left,

one to the right, and a oor hatch for a ladder. She turned, ashlight illuminating the metal-etched maintenance map on the

crawl space wall. Which was better than nothing; at least she didn’t struggle with

folding it like she did as a kid with her parents’ paper maps. She squinted at the

details when a low thrum came from the distance. It grew louder and louder,

combined with a vibration that soon rolled through the oor, and system lights

returning to the maintenance ducts. “Power’s coming back,” she said to Diaz. Within seconds, enough power

surged through the Horizon’s metallic veins to begin warming the environment. Beyond the adjacent wall, a grinding sound churned, followed by hydraulic

bursts and a swift hiss that came from far below—but drawing nearer. The elevator. Seconds later, the sound of elevator doors sliding open. Then the low

murmur of voices, followed by footsteps that got softer as they stepped onto the

bridge. “Captain,” Diaz whispered. “I hear them.”

Demi weighed her options—she counted three, possibly four voices. And per

her emergency protocols, she left no visible trace of the maintenance equipment

or her actions. Demi clicked o her ashlight and readied the pistol before putting her ear

up to the access panel. A voice. A familiar voice. “Demi?” it called out. Lynn. It was Lynn, though in what context, she wasn’t sure. “Demi?

I need help,” Lynn called out again. “Where is your captain?

You said she would be on the bridge,” a di erent

voice said. “She should be…” Lynn’s voice trailed o , though Demi knew her well

enough to detect the tension in her brief words. Diaz inhaled to speak, though

she shushed him with a nger. One breath came, then another, then another as

she listened. “This is a trick,” the voice said. “She should be here.” Collectively, the voices dropped to murmurs, even

Lynn’s. “We gave you a chance. You promised the captain, and she’s not here. I don’t

have time to play around. I need results,” the stranger’s voice roared back, a yell

loud enough to reverberate within the maintenance shaft. “Captain, if you’re

listening, I have a friend of yours. State your name.”

“Lynn. Lieutenant Lynn Kohli, Communications O cer.”

Hostage negotiation was part of GCF academy training, though their

textbook lessons failed to match the intensity of the real thing. Hostages could

come in many di erent forms—friends, crew, colleagues, family, even critical

items and resources. With so few crew available, Lynn kind of checked all those

boxes. Demi would need to make some choices soon. “I hear you’ve known Lieutenant Kohli for a long time. Seen some shit

together. Well, she promised you’d be here, and I don’t see you.” Several

footsteps echoed through the metal grating. “But in case you’re hiding, you’ve

got ten seconds to show yourself before I blast a hole in her chest. Got it?

Ten.”

This was a blu .

It had to be. The crew was small to begin with. Killing one

now would severely limit their bargaining power. Demi handed Diaz her weapon

and pointed deeper into the maintenance shaft. “Hide. That’s an order,” she

whispered. “Nine. Eight. Seven.”

She could stay hidden as well, then try to track them. On the other hand,

Lynn always proved capable and resourceful. If they’re captured together, they

may stand better odds. “Six. Five. I’m losing patience here.”

Resources. Everything in life always came down to resources. In this case, it

was the engine versus Lynn, skilled comms specialist and survivor. She nudged Diaz to move, and he nally turned down the shaft. “Four. Three.”

Lynn. She would choose Lynn. A tactical move, yes, but also a reality check:

this kept Lynn safe. “Two.”

She yelled loud enough to make sure it got through the metal plating. “Enough.”

The panel slid, gradually revealing that most bridge stations were back online,

including the overhead lighting. Demi counted three people in rugged dress, all

with ri es—two pointed at her, and one pointed at Lynn, who stood with hands

up. Demi stepped forward, arms out wide to provide Diaz as much cover as

possible. It proved ine ective, though, and one trooper brushed past her quickly. Seconds later, he emerged with Diaz, now weaponless, with hands behind his

head. Demi looked Lynn over, checking for injuries. She paused, Lynn’s emotions

shifting too rapidly to reveal if everything was okay. “They’re clean,” the man

said, then nodded for them to step away from the access panel. “If you called ahead, we could have tidied the place up,” Demi said. Lynn took a heavy breath in, her eyes dropping to the ground. Her mouth

opened, a small lip tremble before she bit down and looked Demi in the face

again. Demi’s tone softened. “It’s all right. We’ll gure something out.”

“I’m really sorry, Demi.”

“Don’t be. This was my mission. I asked you to come along. I assume full

responsibility.” She straightened, nerves steeling up as she clenched her jaw. “That’s something that everyone here has to understand.” Her focus darted

between the three di erent troops. “Everyone on this ship is my responsibility. You want a hostage for negotiations, you want to interrogate someone, take me.”

Their goal remained unclear, and they might not have needed her at all, but to

start, she needed to claim whatever control she could. “I’ll talk. Give you

whatever information you want. Except I’m only doing it if the rest of my crew

is safe. Otherwise, no deal.”

“Captain!” Diaz started. “Don’t move, Ensign. That’s an order.”

“Demi,” Lynn said. She gave another heavy sigh as her face fell. “We’ve been

friends a long time. We’ve been through so much together.”

“Stop apologizing, Lieutenant. That’s also an order. This is not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” Lynn said, her voice quiet. Demi watched as the next few seconds

playing out in slow motion, a gradual realization of what was happening. First,

the trooper behind Lynn set his ri e down to begin going through Diaz’s

backpack. As he did, he also reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol. Which he handed to Lynn. Who took it and armed it, bringing its charging phase to full with a thin,

high-pitched squeal, then pointed it right at Demi. “I’ve joined the Withdrawal Movement. I’m really sorry to do this to you. Please make it easy on all of us.”

Demi had a rule, something that she started way back when she was a mere

ensign specializing in navigation: always be professional on the bridge. So many came and went alongside her, probably never knowing what

thoughts lurked underneath the cool surface, or what her real personality

actually sounded or looked like. After becoming captain, Hayes’s advice pushed

that dichotomy harder. Demi’s lips pursed, thoughts and emotions bubbling and mixing together,

and she refused to look Lynn in the face as she let herself nally break that rule

after twenty years in the Cluster eet. “Fuck.”

CHAPTER 23

DEMI

Demi’s reaction caused every one of the WM raiders to chuckle. And that

created enough of a distraction that Diaz decided to dive for the ri e on the

oor. His element of surprise got him to the weapon, but not enough time for it to

power up. A cry of “No!” came from both Demi and Lynn. Lynn may have been

louder than Demi—maybe because Lynn understood exactly what would

happen next. Multiple rounds of energy bursts unloaded into Ensign Diaz. “Let’s go,” said the leader, nudging Demi o the bridge before she could

process the swift violence that ended Diaz. Lynn walked too, pacing directly next

to her, but while Demi stayed quiet in her growing fury, Lynn seemed glazed

over and stunned. Even when she spoke, her voice came out hoarse and cracked. They walked in silence to the captain’s quarters. “They want all of you in the

brig,” Lynn nally said as they approached the doors to her quarters. “I lobbied

to con ne you to your quarters.”

“Guess you didn’t have a plan for Diaz.”

Though the jab stemmed from her own impulse to lash out, she took that

nugget of information. The brig meant they weren’t killing the rest of the crew. “He was supposed to go there,” Lynn said quietly. “They go there, you stay

here with Indy while we nish the job.”

“What’s the job?” Demi asked, hoping Lynn’s vulnerability would reveal

anything useful. The doors to her quarters slid open, and Indy, ever oblivious, got up from her bed and stretched before coming over. Lynn and Demi stepped inside, leaving the WM soldiers in the hall. The

doors slid closed behind them, and though Lynn kept the gun up, her posture

relaxed. “Go ahead,” Lynn said, and Demi greeted her dog. And while she gave

Indy ear scratches and pets, she turned to Chuck’s dim purple spark. Indy and Chuck. Together, they o ered Demi a sliver of very needed respite

before she switched into tactical thinking. Demi got Indy’s synthesized kibble

and met Lynn’s gaze. There was something there. Perhaps enough to work with. “You can put the weapon down,” Demi said, mind racing as strategies

formed. “I’m not going to try anything stupid.”

Which was true. Items in her quarters that might have been turned into a

weapon—trophies, books, kitchen knives, any sharp or blunt object—none of

them would match the pistol in Lynn’s hand. Plus, two guards stood outside,

each armed with ri es. Besides, information was the most valuable weapon right now. “You owe me answers,” Demi said. “That’s the least you can do.” Lynn

bowed her head in a near apology before she powered down the pistol, its

insistent high-pitched noise fading away. “We survived everything together. That

should mean something.”

“It does.” A voice came through the door, and Lynn yelled, “We can spare ve

minutes,” before turning back to Demi. “Five minutes. Ask anything.”

“Okay. Is Tanav in on this?”

“No.” Lynn spat the word out so quickly it felt defensive. But she followed it

with softer words, clear regret in them. “Not yet. I plan to ask him. He can

choose.” She gave a small laugh, her mind veering o .

“He’s so innocent. Who

knew corporate universes would be so peaceful?”

“All right.” Demi told herself the ten years of friendship between them didn’t

exist. Everything was a verbal strategy, designed to exploit emotional

opportunities. Tanav was one of those. But she’d selectively utilize that. “First,

I’d like to know how. How’d you bring them on board my ship?”

“Nothing fancy. Their starship was waiting outside. I put primary power in a

diagnostic cycle. Then I let them in.” Lynn’s words dragged with that last admission, like a child caught stealing candy. “Everyone was too distracted by

Matthews to notice.”

Matthews. Lynn must have planted the comm for him. Did she have help?

Demi’s tone sharpened. “Did you just decide to defect?”

“It’s just me. I mean, Lindsay was in on it too.” Lindsay refused to speak to

Demi after Ark Getru, even before the ship heist. This must have come together

quickly. “No one else. At least not here. But you’d be surprised. People are not

happy with the Cluster. Ark Getru should have horri ed people; it’s turning

people to the WM. I have a transmitter unit in my quarters. I send data to other

moles within the Cluster. Coded language, standard channels.”

That was what Matthews detected the morning of Theta Seven. What would

have happened if security interrogated Lynn as he’d planned?

“I spacewalked for the WM,” she said with a quick laugh. “That’s how much

I believe in the cause. Because when I tried to embed a message within secure

protocols, it overloaded the array. This old ship couldn’t handle it. I had to get

out there myself to make sure no one saw the monitor on the external array.”

The mysterious message during the space walk ashed in Demi’s mind: Data

within embedded layer stuck in cache. That was a leak. That was Lynn. “I thought I cleared everything from my last transmission to the WM. I

missed one,” she said with a shrug. “When you found it, I had to cover it up. So I

made a choice—tethered myself to the hull, overloaded a nearby circuit, and

hoped for the best. Now we’re here.” Lynn’s voice dropped. “You tried to keep

the war outside the ship. That’s impossible, Demi. It’s not like it was in the

well.”

With those words, Lynn dismantled all outside context. The WM guards

outside the door, the hijacking, Matthews, Diaz, those disappeared to leave only

Lynn and Demi, like only they were on board. “I made a promise to everyone,” Demi said. “I tried my best to keep it.” But

her best wasn’t sustainable. She knew it as soon as she let it slip that the Horizon

was understa ed. She invited that in, and the very thought cut deep within her. Which meant she could use that very same thought against Lynn right now. “You invited it in,” Demi said—strategic, but she also meant it. “And your

decision killed Diaz.”

Demi expected Lynn to crumble, but she replied with a ery tone. “I didn’t

invite it in any more than you couldn’t keep it out. It invaded the ship as soon as

we got here,” she said. “I didn’t kill Diaz, the same way you didn’t kill Ayenew. The war did that. This ship. They’ve wanted to get their hands on it ever since

they heard about it. Their new FTL propulsion, it’s good—but it’s not this. They were lucky they had a ship within range. I had to cause delays for them to

catch up. It was,” she said with a weary smile, “kind of Neera’s fault. He told me

about it.”

The engine’s strangely resetting pressure cycle. It suddenly all made sense. But then Lynn’s eyes watered, a clear sign she wasn’t fully prepared for this. “It’s so stupid. Why isn’t the GCF pouring everything into the engine?

It

could win any war, and they don’t even realize it.” Her hands shook at this, tears

leaking onto her cheeks. “They could have done that and saved so many people. But that’s the problem with them, isn’t it?

They’re just stuck. That sort of

thinking is why systems want to leave.” She leaned forward, her eyes getting

sharper. “I agree with what they think. But not how they do it. I saw the

casualties and thought, If I could get in there, pull them back just a little bit,

maybe I can save lives. Even just one. Because the Cluster won’t. We saw that at

Ark Getru. Someone has to care.”

Save lives. Such a phrase burned Demi deep in her gut. Saving lives was what

happened in the well. The WM’s actions seemed like plain and simple terrorism. As if reading Demi’s thoughts, Lynn’s emotions calmed, her voice

strengthening. “They originally wanted to take out Theta Seven. Ark Getru

emboldened them. I spent days urging them to back o , told them that it’s a

transport hub, that civilians use it too. Two targets.” She held up two ngers. “They agreed to two targets. Docking and comms. I did that. I did more for

Theta Seven than anyone in Command.” Now her eyes matched her voice in

intensity. “Lindsay and I wanted as many crew safely on Theta Seven. I hoped to

be the only one. So they wouldn’t be in the line of re.” Suddenly, her voice

softened, her sense of righteousness giving way. “The ships arrived too soon.”

“Now Ayenew is dead. Now Diaz is dead. You’ve thrown me in here. This

isn’t about politics,” Demi said. “Look at your body count.”

“No, no, no, Demi, you don’t get it.” Lynn turned to her with a full glare. “That’s the di erence between you and me. You pretended this wasn’t

happening. I kept saying this—it’s impossible. I knew when hostile GCF ships

were the first thing we saw in Cluster space. I knew when my parents ranted

about the WM instead of welcoming me home. It’s so clear. I can make small

di erences, like at Theta Seven. But the only way to save people is to end the war

as soon as possible. And that means giving this ship to the WM. The photonic

engine is the key to saving lives.”

Lynn was right. This stalemate grew more deadly with each passing day. Every single sign pointed to that: classi ed intelligence, resource reports,

responses from Command. Demi had told Krishna, Cabell, and the others that

photonic tech could win the war. The WM recognized that. Why didn’t the Cluster?

“I see you. Right now,” Lynn said. “I see your face. I know you. You’re

thinking about this logic. You get it, don’t you?” Tension melted from her

shoulders, and her breath now came with a steady cool. “We don’t have to be at

odds. You’ve seen it. The Cluster is a single giant thing that operates without a

compass.” Her voice picked up pace with each passing word. “You built alliances

out of nothing. Di erent cultures, di erent wants, di erent ways of

communicating. You knew that if we were going to survive, that would need to

change. It changed us. We can’t go back, but the Cluster wants the status quo. This inertia, it’s maddening, but it pushed the outer systems to do better. They

build new ships, new fuels, but the Cluster still treats them like peasants. The

Withdrawal Movement is just. You know this.”

Lynn stepped forward, a brightness to her brown cheeks now, like the biggest

idea simply appeared and might just manifest into reality if she chose the right

words. “And since it’s just,” Lynn said in a slow, measured tone, “you would be

welcome to join us. Along with the Horizon.”

Join the Withdrawal Movement?

Lynn’s points synthesized with her own emerging concerns about the Cluster

—not just the uselessness of the war, but the morality of all the churn that she

saw everywhere. She somehow took Demi’s best reasoning for staying out of the

war and inverted it into an invitation. In principle, the Withdrawal Movement made sense. But the WM wasn’t just

about principles. If it were, the strikes on the Thexder supply lines wouldn’t

have taken place. Civilian shipping lanes wouldn’t have been targeted. Ark

Getru’s mining station would still oat. The photonic engine was the key to saving lives. But by keeping it out of the

hands of anyone who would recklessly use it. “Would you trust the WM to use

the engine to strike only military targets?

In a strategic way, in a way that forces

negotiations?

Could you guarantee that?

Because from what I see, this isn’t

being considered in decisions. Civilians are dying. And just because they don’t

agree with you doesn’t mean they deserve to be caught in a blast radius.”

Lynn didn’t answer. Seconds passed between them before a knock at the door

interrupted. “Kohli!

We need to move!”

“I need a minute,” she yelled, eyes still locked on Demi, though something

behind them had changed. Demi just couldn’t read what it was. At Ark Getru, Demi saw the Cluster slipping even more, and the only path

forward was what she could control. Then the Lumersian distress signal came,

giving a clear beacon of what needed to be done. In the face of everything Lynn just did and said, none of that changed. In

fact, Demi’s resolve rooted deeper. “You were right when you said that I’ve changed. That we’ve changed. And I

still may not know where that takes me. But I see a bigger issue. We could”—

Demi waved a nger back and forth—“ nd a way out of this, in theory. The

Cluster could better recognize what seceding systems want. WM strikes could be

more surgical, less targeted. But that requires both sides to negotiate in good

faith. And until that changes,” Demi said, leaning back into her chair, “you’re

not on the right side. It’s just a side. My focus has to be on getting to the

Lumersians and preventing the collapse of their dimension. Because that’s the

one thing I know is right.”

Another knock came at the door, and Lynn’s head swiveled in uncertainty. “I

don’t agree with you, but I respect you. I always have. What do you think the

Cluster plans to do to WM systems?

They want everything back to normal, but

too many people have seen the truth. Going back to normal is impossible.”

Another knock came against the door, an intense pounding that echoed

through the space and chipped away at any remaining time. Demi already lost

Chuck. She nearly lost her command—and really, that was as good as gone once

all of this nished. She would not let them take the engine. “Listen to me,” she said, a rare gravel to her voice. “You can’t give them the

engine. We have to help the Lumersians. They are innocent—they helped us.”

“This isn’t about them.” Lynn glanced at the door again. “The engine—”

The doors slid open to the silhouette of a guard with a drawn ri e. “It’s

time,” he said. “I have to go. We’re not going to kill you,” Lynn said. “Or the crew. We’ll

gure out a way to get you home safe. I promise. But not with the photonic

engine.” She lingered for several seconds, though Demi refused to give her any

response to work with. “It might be a while. But hey, at least you won’t be

ghting a war while you wait.”

CHAPTER 24

TANAV

Matthews led Tanav through maintenance tunnels until getting to a hatch above

a hallway. They’d dropped down and moved swiftly, the commander gesturing

in precise hand signals: go, stop, hide, back away. The journey took them

forward, more open hallways rather than maintenance ducts, and during this

time, they saw neither WM soldiers nor Horizon crew. Nor did they hear any

weapons re or signs of violence. “There,” Matthews said, pointing to a Withdrawal Movement soldier. Unlike

the clean uniforms of the GCF, all sleek lines and crisp folds, the soldier could

have been mistaken for a technician at any base or station in the galaxy. Except for the large ri e strapped to him. “They still don’t know about stellar cartography. Otherwise there’d be more

of them here.” The doors slid open, and the man spoke into a hand comm

before stepping inside. “Go, now!”

“What?” But before Tanav got an answer, Matthews dashed forward. The

commander twisted himself, sliding horizontally through the closing doors,

though they shut before Tanav got through. First came several low grunts from

beyond the wall, followed by indecipherable shouting. A loud thump slammed,

causing vibrations to ripple through the paneling. The wall absorbed an impact from either Matthews or the WM soldier. But

which?

Tanav didn’t have time to try to decipher, as more grunts came, along with a

clang, and a shout—one that clearly came from Matthews. Another new sound came: the familiar pulse of an energy weapon. Two

more, in fact, one of the blasts impacting the door, causing a sizzle along with a

dissipating heat across the wall. Finally, silence. Then the doors slid open with a full hydraulic pu .

Tanav started to twist into a hiding position when Matthews’s low voice cut

through. “Get in here, quick.”

Tanav stepped through the doorway, his view widening to the massive domed

room that contained the GCF’s most advanced mapping and charting tech in

the eet—even with the ten-year gap. All around them, projections of the galaxy

oated, a mix of holographic imagery and continuous wall display to show an

array of stellar bodies, lines and names zipping between them. Tanav spent so

little time in this room that he needed a minute to take it all in: the length of the

metal ramp, the maintenance oor some seven feet below them, and at the end

of the ramp, a spiral staircase that led to a platform with a smaller spherical holo-

map and a data table similar to the one on the bridge. And below all that, the crumpled body of a WM soldier. But about halfway

down the ramp, between Tanav and the WM soldier, two prone bodies in GCF

uniforms. Tanav took in a quick inhale and dashed over. He slammed a hand over his

mouth when he realized who it was. Karl had talked about wanting to do more after Ark Getru. Did he get

reckless here?

And Hikaru, they’d just seen each other in the mess hall. Tanav

pictured his thumbs-up after trying his pie. Matthews held up a tablet, presumably taken from the unconscious WM

soldier. “Twelve soldiers occupying this ship. They’re spread out. And this

fellow”—he pointed over to the prone invader—“was apparently here to

download intel from our stellar cartography repository.” Matthews tapped a

nger on a displayed list. “For these targets. Hey.” His voice shifted, becoming

softer, compassionate. “I understand if you need a moment. They were your

colleagues. But we don’t have a lot of time. We don’t know if anyone else is

heading this way.”

In the well, death was a familiar companion—accidents, catastrophes,

violence between neighboring ships, even the occasional suicide. But this felt so

much heavier, like his body and mind couldn’t shift back into the way it

operated back then. “Is that data why we’re here?” Tanav asked, a conscious e ort to push past his

feelings. “That’s why they were here,” Matthews explained, as Tanav examined the

raider on the oor. Eyes closed. Lying still. But breathing. A quick look showed a

ri e lying on a lower maintenance platform. It must have fallen during the

struggle with Matthews. At least one less needless death in this war. “On the surface, it’s star charts and trade routes. Geography. But the

transport schedule?

Density of tra c?

Security measures?

If you’re going to

scare people or disrupt a society, that’s how you do it. Look at the highlights. These aren’t military targets. They want to expose vulnerabilities. And they’re

right. The Cluster is losing.” Matthews handed the list over to him, then peered

over the side of the ramp, all sorts of half-exposed hardware tied into the guts of

the Horizon. In Tanav’s universe, the course of history led to the gradual rise of capitalism

and groupthink to rule over a rm caste system across forty-three regions. In

Neera’s, things moved to an authoritarian beat. This place, though, was much

more complicated. “I know you’re hurting. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.” Matthews

scanned upward, beyond the spiral staircase and its attached platform. “You can

do right by your friends by helping me protect that. That is our best chance to

make a di erence. That’s why the Horizon’s so important. Their deaths can have

meaning.” Tanav’s eyes tracked Matthews’s scanner over to a large metal bubble

at the roof of stellar cartography. “Inside there is ten-year-old communications

hardware. The only active ship in the eet without updated encryption protocols

for classi ed materials. WM moles intercepted intelligence everywhere—at bases,

on planetary stations, on ships. Because everything had been updated or built

new. Except the Horizon. The Horizon uses a di erent protocol. No one can

steal it.”

The way Matthews laid it out, each point carried a practicality to it, answers

snapping into place. But that didn’t address Tanav’s biggest question about the

war:

Why did both sides let civilians get in the way?

“We couldn’t bring old ships out of dry dock. It’d be too obvious. Same thing

if we tried installing new protocols. A ten-year-old craft crashing into Cluster

space out of nowhere?

It’s perfect. The Horizon will be the new hub, used to

send out classi ed intel and orders to trusted individuals. Right now, all sorts of

intelligence and orders leak. They anticipate our every move. It lets them strike

when we’re not looking—like Ark Getru. Command said the bureaucrats aren’t

negotiating until they can break the stalemate; this breaks the stalemate.” He

looked at the WM soldier. “I’m going to run a few more checks on this. Then we

need to secure the ship. Find something to tie up that guy.” Matthews said it as if

spare parts for tying up captured raiders was an everyday occurrence on the

Horizon. Though, for a short period, it was—those weeks when raids took the life of

Grant Singh. Tanav actually got involved in one of the captures, more by

happenstance than anything else. But he knew that extra excables for ship

power distribution also doubled as such. Trying to survive the well had forced

that knowledge on him, yet this was di erent, like a wave trying to pull him

under. Even as he stepped over the unconscious WM soldier, he wondered if

others felt that way too. Tanav paused at Karl and Hikaru. Had they been scared?

Did they regret

helping?

He checked once more for life signs, tears stinging his eyes at their

stillness. He wanted a moment. He wanted to remember them, but there would

be time for that later. Tanav pushed himself forward, all the way to a small chest

containing coiled excables for the room’s specialized maintenance. “That’ll work,” he muttered to himself as he carried them over to the

unconscious soldier. He strung it out for length, thoughts still weighing

everything Matthews had just said. Lynn told him that Matthews kept looking at

hardware schematics, but she’d gured he was considering how to upgrade

things for the war e ort. She’d be amused to learn it was the opposite. Would he even be allowed to tell

her?

The question formed when suddenly everything went black. Almost black. His vision blurred; what remained was a swirl of colors and a

sting in his temple. A boot—or what he presumed was a boot—struck him

square in the stomach, and momentum caused him to roll o the walkway, a

loud impact as he landed on the lower maintenance deck. Seconds passed, and

through the pain, he forced his eyes open; as his vision returned, he caught the

WM soldier taking a step forward. Tanav tried standing but stumbled down,

only focusing enough to see Matthews and the soldier struggling over the tablet

near the door. And then a shout of pain. Followed by Matthews dropping to one knee, hand covering his upper thigh

—and in between his ngers, blood oozed out, saturating his uniform. Matthews hopped up and swung an arm, missing completely and falling on his

face. Tanav struggled to his feet, the world still swirling. “Get the gun!” Matthews yelled. “What?

What gun?” Tanav called back, the very act of doing so caused his

temple to burn. He tried to blink the blur out of his vision, at least enough to see

several steps in front of him. The ri e from earlier. Matthews was still bent over, but where was the other guy?

Tanav spun to the

other side and spottend the WM soldier already up the circular stairs and at a

station. Tanav picked up the gun, putting the strap over his shoulder. The weight, the

warmth from the discharge, they pulled him back into the bleakest days in the

well and Grant’s dying breaths, and he shook his head to snap out of the last

time he held a weapon. “Go!

He’s at the transmission console!”

Tanav headed to the access ladder, forcing himself up one step at a time until

emerging to nd the commander stumbling toward him. Matthews steadied

himself on the railing, one hand putting pressure on a bleeding leg wound as he

hobbled forward. “Stop him before he sends over any data.”

The commotion got the soldier’s attention, though instead of confronting

them, he refocused on the station, frantically typing like it was more important

than his very survival. Tanav found more steadiness in his footing, steps becoming lighter, and

vision becoming clearer. Though his head spun when Matthews barked another

order at him. “What are you doing?” The commander’s voice grew closer as he shu ed

across the walkway. “Shoot him!

You’ve got line of sight!”

Shoot him?

About ve or six meters sat between Tanav and the winding staircase up to

the transmission console. While they had a clear angle based on where the soldier

stood, at least his upper half, Tanav wasn’t sure he could make the shot. More

importantly, he couldn’t just shoot this person. He’d shot one person before, during the incident that killed Grant, but that

was with a weapon pointed directly back at him—not to stop a data theft. And

even then, Tanav only wounded the tall alien raider in the leg. Behind Tanav, Matthews’s irregular footsteps got nearer. He drew the

weapon slowly, no muscle memory from the training Demi put him through

several years ago, but hopefully he made it look good. “Stand down!”

The man didn’t react; instead he moved faster, attaching a device to the top

of the console. “He’s transmitting now,” Matthews yelled, nearly caught up. “You have to

shoot him!”

“We can talk about this. No one has to—”

“Ah.” Matthews yanked the ri e out of Tanav’s hand. He leaned back against

the guardrail, all his weight propped up by his good leg, his hand letting go of

the bleeding thigh wound to hold the barrel of the ri e up. Two quick shots

red, so fast Tanav couldn’t track them before he saw the man slump. The ri e clanged as it hit the metal ramp. Matthews soon followed, both

hands putting pressure on his wound. “Go see if he nished his transmission.”

Tanav took a shaky, steadying breath. “You didn’t have to kill him.” Tanav

forced his way up each of the stellar cartography steps to the central station,

making the full sweeping rotation until he arrived at the top level’s consoles,

where the soldier lay face up, eyes wide open. With a massive, smoking wound burned through his chest. “He wasn’t threatening us!” Tanav screamed as he glanced at the displays, the

stations, the attached device. “He killed your friends. Their bodies are right there.”

He squinted at the device’s status and read it aloud for Matthews, each word

lled with spite at the violence of it all. “ ‘Stage three connection established. Press to initiate transmission.’ ” He wanted to yell about the pointlessness of it

all. They had a chance, in this microcosm of violence. They could have taken this

singular moment in a war spanning galaxies to shift something. Instead,

Matthews killed him. Without any words being exchanged. “It didn’t nish. That’s good.” Matthews switched topics like he snapped his

ngers. “Search the body.”

That part, unfortunately, Tanav understood. More memories ooded him:

the feel of lifeless weight and the smell of burnt esh and blood mixing together

as they scavanged Grant’s killers for useful equipment. And while he did as

requested now—followed orders—he stared at the burnt hole that ran from the

man’s front to his back. He forced each action, going through pockets and

pouches until he headed back to Matthews with the few recovered items: the

transmission device, another small data tablet, a data storage chip, a compressed

ration pill. And the knife that had plunged into Matthews’s leg. Along with a piece of long, thick fabric—a sleeve Tanav cut o the soldier’s

coat using that very same knife. Matthews tied the fabric tight around his leg as he examined the device. “Transmission was set to an unknown vessel,” he said, tapping through it to load

up transmission targets. “We stopped it just in time.”

Hikaru was dead. Karl was dead. Who knew what else had happened on the

ship. But Tanav didn’t seek vengeance, he just wanted everyone to pick a better

way. “You think I’m some naïve pop star. I survived in that gravity well. I shot the invader who killed our rst o cer—my friend. I know how this works.” For

days after Ark Getru, the images of ung bodies would sear into his mind’s eye. Now it had been replaced by the charred, exposed innards and smoking hole of

the man on the upper platform. “That man did not have a gun pointed at us. Without weapons, there’s always a chance to back down. To make a choice.”

“He did have a weapon. He had data.” Matthews grunted as he applied more

pressure to his leg. “Data is how people make decisions. This is di erent from

the gravity well. It’s bigger. It’s more sinister, because someone’s decision can kill

hundreds, thousands. They can deploy troops or plant bombs. Every moment

that passes, when there’s no true negotiations, this drags out. It makes it so

people like him do things like this. He put aside his ego and believed in his cause. He didn’t care if you pointed a ri e at him. Belief is a powerful thing. It makes

people fearless.” He stood up—or at least tried to. “Your belief in the Cluster makes you fearless?”

Matthews shook his head at that question. “No. I don’t believe in the

Cluster. Not as it stands. I grew up in the colonies. I know how bad it can be. But I believe it can be better. I’ve seen that too. I ght to change it from the

inside, however I can, with whatever I can. Command thinks I’m looking for

ways to win the war. I’m looking for ways to stop the war. There’s a di erence.”

He put one hand on the ramp’s guardrail and tilted back and forth, nding

balance. “You’re not fearless about killing yet. That’s a good thing, though.”

Matthews tested his good leg with several hops. “As for our spy?

They probably

believe too. I just hope that belief hasn’t hurt anyone on this ship.”

The spy. Every moment since their escape from the brig had been about

pushing forward, but now they had to deal with the spy. Matthews had an

instinct about Tanav. Would he be able to assess the rest of the crew that way?

The commander pointed down at the ri e, and Tanav handed it over. Though

instead of holding it like a weapon, it became a makeshift crutch. “Come on. We

gotta move.”

Tanav didn’t have that ability, and instead he forced himself to follow—left

foot, then right foot, repeated over and over. Even then, he couldn’t shake one

quick phrase from Matthews, a passing phrase that carried far too much power:

It makes people fearless. That drove Demi to go back to the well. It drove this spy, whoever it was. It

drove the WM to wait out here in ambush. And it drove Matthews to kill the

person that Tanav couldn’t. All these belief systems. All pulling in di erent directions, with the Horizon

in the middle. Matthews began explaining the best path to the bridge, with the goal of

hopefully nding Demi. Halfway through his explanation, things suddenly went

dark— rst the outer hallway, then stellar cartography in a partial power outage,

di erent from the whole-ship failure of before. This time the lights shut down,

yet the star chart systems still hummed, and the oor groaned with the usual

rumble of the Horizon’s propulsion systems. Before Tanav could consider what that meant, Matthews stumbled his way

over, one arm on rails for support. “If I gotta use this,” he said, holding up the

ri e for a moment before setting it back down to lean on, “you’ll have to prop

me up.” From outside the hallway, voices shouted, followed by the sounds of

debris scattering. “Sounds like a re ght out there.”

“Maybe it’s one of our—” Tanav paused when all the noise went quiet. “What—”

Matthews shushed him, and even though the ri e still doubled as a cane for

him, he icked the power on. A new noise came, and Tanav leaned into the

hallway to catch a silhouette that slowly backed in. Low lighting revealed it was

an armed woman, though from her actions, she clearly didn’t know about the

room’s occupants. “Hey, Yellow,” she called out. “What was that?

Where’d you go?”

Tanav looked at Matthews, who nodded, which he took as at least some sort

of permission to hold up this new invader. But before he managed to reply, a

blinding white cocoon emerged around the person, quickly followed by the

sound of her voice. Or what Tanav assumed was her voice. It sounded like a cry of fear or

desperation, yet it carried an electrical distortion that eventually meshed into a

high-pitched wail. The cocoon ashed, temporarily blinding Tanav. And when his vision

restored, only an empty hallway remained. “Oh, it’s you two,” a voice said, and it took Tanav a moment to realize who it was. Sadler walked into view. He looked at Tanav, then over at Matthews, then he

glanced behind them. “You two are a long way from the brig, aren’t you?” he asked with a laugh. CHAPTER 25

NEERA

In the engine room of the Horizon, though, every option now presented itself in

the most petrifying way. Neera told Macek to nd safety, and by sound, that put

him somewhere on the opposite side of the space, probably behind spare

equipment. He hunkered down behind the engineering room’s main workbench. Some

cover was better than no cover, though his size likely meant the top of his head

remained somewhat exposed. Still, he was at least on the opposite end of the

double-door entrance. More importantly, the workbench sat a level up from both the photonic

engine and the synth generator, a perimeter of railing also providing some cover

for that tech. Even the main FTL controls and propulsion core lay on the

opposite side of the U-shaped level. Because if someone was going to try to shoot

him down, at least he could spare the marvels of engineering in the room. The double doors slid open, and he remained hidden as best he could while

voices murmured. With other Dywens, his mind would have intuitively

processed the interlink between his species. That could have estimated the

number of approaching predators. But on a starship in a di erent universe?

Five invaders, he guessed, as he tried to pick out voices and sounds and

presences. Followed by the sound of hydraulics, then footsteps— rst in a bunch,

but then a set descending to inspect the photonic engine and synth generator. Something else tickled his instincts, though a practical realization grounded him

rst:

Blocked. Without weapons. Without options. What were the risks?

If he stayed hidden, he’d be considered a threat. If he waited for Macek to be

discovered, they could target him. And while Macek proved to be an excellent

engineer and an enthusiastic supporter, his naïve optimism here might be

detrimental to his ability to stay hidden. Neera also didn’t know their purpose,

or their abilities. If they used thermal sensors or other scanners, hiding would be

ine ective. Footsteps spread out and he couldn’t wait for orders. He outranked Macek,

and while that only applied to engineering, it still created a hierarchy. As uncomfortable—unnatural—as it was for him, Neera was responsible. Neera had to choose. “I will stand up away from cover,” Neera called out, his back still against the

workbench. “Perhaps we may be encouraged to talk rather than ght.”

No reply came, which he took as a positive, especially because he picked up

on a latent undercurrent of anxiety. Not dread or anger, but the strange balance

between all of those that often came with uncertainty. He took that as a positive sign. If he was wrong, he would be dead in several

seconds, so there wouldn’t be much time to linger on mistakes. Though it did

seem odd to pick up on this, and as he pondered that, a new idea emerged:

Perhaps the WM had a Dywen among its ranks?

Neera stood slowly, arms up. As the rest of the room came into view, he

counted three WM soldiers, all with weapons trained on him. Four, when he counted Lynn, who stood at the foot of the steps, the pink

glow of the synth tinting her cheeks. “Lynn,” he said quietly. That must have been the anxiety he detected. “I was

worried about you. They got—”

He paused, and his eyes focused on the short, quick movement of her hands. Lynn held a weapon on him. And her hands were trembling. Everything clicked into place. Her constant feeling of discomfort. The

strange ash of emotion during the space walk. It all made sense, and yet not at

all. Lynn was one of them. Survivor. Pack. How could she do this?

“I’m sorry,” she said with a quick glance to the WM soldiers above her. “You

know, I said that a lot to Demi too. But it’s true. I am sorry. This is not about us

or the crew. Please make it easy. Where is Macek?”

The crew. But it was more than that. They were a pack. How could Lynn

betray her pack?

Neera’s emotions whirled, his world shifting rapidly. “Where is Demi?” Neera nally asked in response. “In her quarters. She’s safe. With Indy.” She grimaced as she straightened the

energy pistol in her hand. “I…” Her voice brie y trailed o .

“Look, no one has to

get hurt. We have one goal: dismantle the photonic engine. Break it down into

components. We’ll take the parts and download the schematics to rebuild it.”

“The engine?” One of the soldiers peered at the tower of technology, eyes

studying the control console and the adjacent synth generator, and a rare surge

of rage coursed through Neera. Though he supposed that feeling was

understandable. For the Dywen, the protective instinct only emerged over

o spring. In a way, the photonic engine was the closest thing he had to that. “You cannot take that from here. The Lumersians require us to bring it—”

“I can’t get into a philosophical debate right now,” she said, her brow

crinkling. “I know the engine is modular. Help us dismantle it.”

Neera looked at the di erent faces surrounding him, most human and one

nonhuman species that he didn’t recognize. “I cannot. A promise was made to

keep it safe,” he said. Quick looks between the other soldiers showed that they

grew impatient. “Dismantling and rebuilding will be a risky endeavor. It was

built iteratively, and it may not work if pieces are tampered with.”

A creak came from the far corner. Had this been any other situation, such a

noise could be dismissed or ignored as the standard bumps and rumbles of the

Horizon. But Lynn knew right away—though to her credit, she stopped mid-

glance and focused on Neera. “Go check it out,” a soldier said. Neera watched one of the WM soldiers break away, his ri e raised. He had to

make a decision. They would discover Macek soon, and Neera didn’t want his

presence to lead to an accident. And maybe he could appeal to Lynn’s own sense

of pack. “Wait, I am not alone,” Neera said. “Macek, please stand up. Do not harm

him.”

The small man eased out from behind a cabinet, his hands raised. He glared

ercly at Lynn as he came slowly over to Neera’s location. “Why are you doing

this?” he asked Lynn directly, with more confusion than vitriol in his voice. Neera held up his hand to stop any additional commentary. “Lynn, Macek can con rm the engine lacks the stability needed to dismantle

and rebuild it.” He reached out through their empathic imprint to gauge what

she might be feeling. “We’re counting on breaking it apart,” she said—honestly, based on Neera’s

senses. And she knew he told the truth. Yet something else lingered behind that

truth. Neera took another moment to ponder, then realized the outline of what she

hid: she didn’t trust her WM comrades. And that created a high level of risk for

everyone. “We have barely gotten it running as it is,” Neera said. “For stability, it should

stay on this ship—”

“It leaves this ship,” one of the soldiers said. “Then we destroy the ship.”

“Wait, no, you can’t do that,” Lynn said, her eyes widening. “These are good

people.”

“Lynn,” Neera said, “the entire Lumersian species is at risk. If the WM truly

cares about the freedom and safety of individuals, they should let us go.”

“We don’t have time for this,” the nonhuman said in a growly voice, and as if

on cue, a communicator on Lynn’s belt beeped. Lynn’s anxiety grew, and

Neera’s unease matched it, a feedback loop making a di cult situation that

much worse. Next to him, beads of sweat formed on Macek’s brow, and Neera’s

instincts were right—his friend’s sunny, science-focused outlook was no match

for violent threats. They’d all experienced circumstances like this in the gravity well, yet Neera

had seen being in Cluster space do something to this crew, as if the physical and

temporal distance from that place made them forget how di cult it was. He

could more easily return to emergency circumstances, possibly from the way of

life forged in him by the Regent Empire. Macek, though, showed neither stoic resolve nor calculated response. “Macek, go to the brig.” Lynn must have picked up on that too. “Someone

bring him there. He’s not a threat. You promised me we’d keep them safe during

—”

Before she could nish, the nonhuman red an energy blast at Macek. It bore

a hole in his chest, a st-size burn that ate through from front to back. Macek

collapsed backward, a lifeless free fall ending in a thud on the deck plates, smoke

wafting up from the wound. Something in Neera wailed. He’d seen friends and allies fall in the well. But

that was supposed to be behind them. Lynn stood frozen, mouth agape, the emotions pouring out of her a storm,

although in there came a sign that she had seen the WM murder a colleague

before. She turned to him, a tremble that probably meant many di erent things,

but none of that mattered. As he tried to weigh his options and their risks,

everything changed. First, a strange light emerged to his right, along with a high-pitched buzz

mixed with a higher-pitched digital squeal. Neera turned—as did everyone else

—to nd a white blur of light, a cocoon that grew in intensity until he shielded

his eyes. Voices clamored around him, disbelief and confusion about what was

happening, and he eventually realized that thing surrounded one of the WM

soldiers. The light vanished, and the room looked exactly as it was prior to its strange

appearance—except one less WM soldier stood in the room. “What did you do?” the human in the back growled, gun raised. Neera’s eyes

darted, rst at the man, then the ri e in his hands, then Lynn as her lips twisted

in confusion. “Is this the engine?”

A sudden ash led to the next cocoon of light enveloping another WM

soldier. The same spreading glow and sudden ash, though this time a distorted voice rippled through the strange energy, and suddenly, nothing was there. “It’s a weapon.” The remaining soldier swept her ri e back and forth in a

search for targets. “We don’t know that,” Lynn retorted. Her sudden fear tied into his feelings,

like power surging through wiring. “Neera, what is this?”

“We don’t have time!” the soldier shouted. “If we can’t take the engine, we

have to destroy it.”

She aimed her ri e, and Neera’s eyes widened as he realized her target. The

muzzle pointed directly at the photonic engine, and before Neera could o er any

protest, a di erent kind of light ashed through the space:

The brilliance of a muzzle ash before launching a blast of heated plasma. The photonic containment unit burst, sparks showering in every direction. Another blast came, this time hitting the control console and the connected

thermal regulation system. More sparks ew, along with shards of metal and

composites, and a glowing red whip tore out from the engine’s base, a chain

reaction of photonic energy mixing with electricity and oxygen and anything else

in its path as it lashed out across the room. It died out, leaving only a burning

line across the oor, the wall, and any xtures in its path. Then the blinding ash of white as the cocoon returned, soon followed by

distorted screams. From the cocoon, a spread of energy re fanned out. Neera

ducked, one shot soaring over him as it absorbed harmlessly into the alloy

plating of the engine room’s wall. The rest of it moved in a constellation of blasts

across the room. Right when the cocoon ashed, the plasma impacted, the

sound of impact and explosion and twisted metal. By the time Neera could see again, the soldier was gone. But two plumes of

smoke bled into the space, the rst from the photonic engine—and the second

from the FTL control systems. “Neera, what is happening?

How are you doing this?” Lynn raised her gun

with wide eyes, her voice shaking as she stared at him. Though the human heart

was a physical organ, its pounding cadence in Lynn’s chest overwhelmed her

senses, and that made even thinking di cult, all of his own thought patterns

overloaded with her panic. “Where are they?”

“That light is not from me,” Neera said quickly. “It is unknown technology.”

“How is this—” Her question cut o as the cocoon formed around her. “No. No, Neera, not like this.” An electronic distortion took over her voice, gradually

shifting its sound from Lynn’s familiar tones into a garbled unintelligible mess. The last thing Neera heard from Lynn was “Help me.”

The silhouette of Lynn’s hand reached out, ngers extended. As if the last

few minutes of betrayal never existed, Neera reached over the guardrails to her,

his own hand swiping through the edge of the cocoon. The light disappeared. Lynn was gone, and not just physically—the bond that wove into his senses,

the weight of her presence, disappeared as well. No, it went beyond

disappearance; this felt like a vacuum ignited in Neera’s chest, imploding all his

senses and stealing his ability to move. His hand remained outstretched,

steadying breaths pacing through his body. A rush of hydraulics cut into the

quiet, and the doors slid open to reveal Sadler. No weapons in hand, but holding

a small module Neera had never seen before. Sadler stepped inside, and shortly behind him trailed Matthews, with a clear

limp and a bloodied bandage around his thigh, his weight supported by a ri e-

turned-crutch. Sadler held up a small square device, and from the grin on his

face, Neera knew that tech—whatever it was—did all this. “Sadler, what did—” Neera stopped his question midway. Because Tanav now came in as well. And from the look on his face, he had no idea what just happened to Lynn. CHAPTER 26

DEMI

Demi pulled back from the exposed wiring next to her door. No computer

systems meant no schematics, which meant her non-engineer brain had to tread

carefully over the past thirty minutes or so. She’d managed to pry the hand-size

panel open with makeshift tools, but approached the wiring part a little more

slowly. Hot-wiring the door’s mechanism would be great; frying herself on live

power would not. She turned to the large square device next to Chuck—the translation matrix

processing incoming Lumersian messages. It had a stand-alone power system,

and if the door just needed a jolt, maybe connecting the two would do the trick. “Not exactly date night, is it?” Demi asked as she glanced at Chuck’s

containment unit. “If I ever talk to Command again, remind me to request

escape doors in the captain’s quarters. Seems like a sensible design feature.”

The purple spark twinkled, and while this was probably just a re ection from

environmental shifts a ecting light scattering, she chose to believe it was

Chuck’s way of responding to her jokes. She paused, a forced recall of his

ridiculous stilted laughter. But what came next from the containment unit wasn’t a friendly mechanized

chuckle. Instead, a harsh series of oscillating screeches and beeps arrived—similar

to the last message received, but di erent in pitch and rhythm. Next to it, the

makeshift translation unit refused to do its job, the display interface showing

chaotic waveforms. “Your people have either great timing or terrible timing,” she said, stepping

away from the door wiring for a closer look. She tapped on the translation

matrix’s di erent menus to load various language logs. The noises cycled

through, Demi counting about a minute before repeating—shorter than last

time, and de nitely something di erent and new. But the previous message

boosted the translation matrix’s database, at least in theory. So this—and future

messages—should hopefully translate faster. That thought led to other scienti c

questions—did each convergence point have its own message?

Or was this a real-

time transmission, with data originating from the folds between physical and

photonic space?

Also, could the Lumersians help out right now?

Because she sure could have

used a boost. Demi tapped the console again, cycling through di erent standards until bits

of the message processed, though only a few synthesized words emerged from

the vocabulator. “Trapped vessel.”

“Contact.”

“Different universe.”

“Parents.”

The rst few translated phrases made sense; they lined up with previously

translated details. A starship was trapped in the new gravity well. Attempts at

contact. Possibilities of di erent physical universes from the hub of photonic

space. But parents?

The Lumersians didn’t even understand that concept. “Remember when I explained the whole ‘birds and bees’ thing to you?”

Demi asked aloud. “Looks like your family was eavesdropping. I hope they

weren’t going to pressure us for grandkids.”

Ever since Chuck’s voice returned for that single moment, a utter of hope

had grown. Same with every cycle of transmission noise that came. The

vocabulator stayed consistently quiet outside of translation work, yet even now

that sliver of hope persisted. Immediately followed by a desperation to know why

she’d heard one plus one equals two. The unit remained quiet, but Chuck’s spark twinkled again, and while she

liked to think this was about everlasting love challenging the borders of space

and time and dimensions, her rational mind gave a clearer scienti c explanation:

environmental changes a ecting light scattering and particle reactions. The

Horizon was a GCF starship with stable environmental controls, plus she’d

spent plenty of time talking to Chuck’s spark and had rarely received twinkles

back. When it did, it usually came from some light source outside the window. Demi glanced out the domed window of her quarters. The same scattering of

white lay across a black canvas, the patterns and distances between the stars the

same as it had been from the last time she looked. The only di erence came from

the port side of the docked WM craft, a freighter still barely visible from the

angle of her quarters. Then something ashed. Demi blinked several times just to make sure it

wasn’t a trick of her tired eyes. She squinted at the WM ship. A ash of light,

and once again she wondered if her eyes deceived her. Something looked strange,

like a gradual shift causing ever so slight color tweaks. Another ash came, one directly within her eld of vision. That was no trick;

she saw it with certainty. “Computer, run sensor scans o the stern of the ship, distance of ve

kilometers.”

No voice came in return. Of course. Other than the ability to synthesize dog food and water, Lynn’s

team had cut o all other functional access. Demi went for something more old-fashioned—from the storage

compartment beneath her bed, she grabbed a reliable pair of lens-based

binoculars. Dirt still caked along the bottom edge from her last Earth-based hike

some six months ago, when she’d used her only shore leave to take Chuck’s spark

to the California redwood trees. Perhaps searching space for strange ashes was the intergalactic form of bird-

watching. With the eyepiece pressed against her skin, she scanned the space again. Even

with a closer look, too few details were clear. Something was out there, and it

appeared to be rotating slowly while drifting away. What it was, though, or how that related to the ashes, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps pieces of the hull were burned

o by the WM?

Another ash came, only partly visible in the far-right corner of the

binoculars. Whatever it was, it lingered among the other debris. “What the hell?” From across the room, Indy hu ed, probably an exhale of

deep sleep, but Demi took it as greyhound snark. “It’s not food, Indy. Guess I’ll

—”

Another ash interrupted Demi’s train of thought. Except this one arrived

closer—close enough that she could clearly see that this thing was a body. A human body. Or humanoid, at least. Was it alive when it shot out into

space?

That part remained unclear, but as her eyes adjusted to the contrast of

hull lighting and black space, a clear silhouette formed: one arm extended, the

other clutching its chest, legs tensed. The body rotated, the extended arm clearly holding a pistol—and was that a

GCF uniform under the crystalizing layer of ice?

Demi watched as details came into view. Right when she got a clear look at

the uniform, its arm jolted, ngers releasing the pistol to drift away. And the face

—Demi adjusted the focus for ner details, and despite the thin layer of frost

and burst blood vessels, she knew exactly who it was. Cheekbones. Lips. Long, curly black hair. And indeed—a GCF uniform. With green trim for the communications

division and two bands across the upper arm for the rank of lieutenant. Lynn. Lynn Kohli oated in ice-cold space. And the others?

Probably WM soldiers, judging by their lack of uniforms. Demi scanned around, counting at least four bodies oating into the

nothingness. But how?

Not that long ago, Demi had told herself to erase ten years of friendship and

survival, to put herself into a strategic duel of words against Lynn. Now the truth stared back at her, sinking in with every forming ice crystal

over Lynn’s face. She could not erase their past. It mattered. It informed their decisions,

de ned how they got here. No matter what happened, those moments still

existed and shaped their lives. And that realization unleashed nausea in her gut, a weakness in her hands. Demi wanted to pull the binoculars away. But she forced herself to stay, to look

at Lynn, to give her that moment. Despite their disagreements, they left things as

a debate. Demi almost grasped Lynn’s opinion. And Demi saw in Lynn’s

reaction—her hesitation, her eyes—that she’d edged toward grasping Demi’s

opinion too. Now they wouldn’t have that chance. And to die this way. Horri ed. Cold. Alone. The thought stayed, its burrs digging deep inside. The chime of the comm system shook her out of it—in fact, multiple chimes,

as all the various blank status and communications displays came back to life. Someone, somewhere, must have icked a switch to bring her quarters online. “Neera to Captain Kim.”

Neera?

What was happening?

“I’m here. I’m not liking the vibes right now.” Demi spoke slowly, the weight

of the situation breaking past any of her usual masking of feelings. “I could really

use some good news. Are we clear?”

“Our circumstances are stable. However, there are many issues for me to

catch you up on.” Neera’s voice, usually lled with a steadiness that was equal

parts physiological and cultural, now wavered. “We have problems.”

Short, forceful wording. Demi knew the cadence was a choice from him, a

muscle he had to exercise. He only did this when he needed to convey the

absolute gravity of the moment. Demi waited, cautious and steady breaths as she

listened to his next words. “We are stranded.”

OFFICIAL EVENT RECORD

Initial Contact Between GCF Intrepid 2 and GCF Horizon

GCF Intrepid 2: Command, we are on an imminent approach vector with the distress beacon. The message continues to repeat. GCF Command: Proceed with caution. Defensive measures level two authorized. Intrepid 2: Understood. We’re now in sensor range. Ship specifications show… it’s an old ship. GCFC: How old?

Intrepid 2: Ten, maybe twelve years old?

Weapons powering up. Decoding distress call now. It’s taking a few moments, the transmission protocols are all outdated. Command, please advise. GCFC: This is a common WM ploy—take an older craft, disguise it as a distress call, and arm it. Confirm the location?

Intrepid: Sector SDF7.

Well past the cease-fire barrier. GCFC: And in a trade route too. Patch the audio through. Kim: Mayday, mayday. This is an emergency distress call from Captain Demora Kim of the GCF Starship Horizon. We are damaged, lacking basic resources, and carrying refugees. Intrepid 2: Preliminary lifesign scans show ninety-three on board. Forty-four identify as human. Eight other species that do not match anything in the Cluster database. GCFC: Demora Kim and the Horizon crew were declared dead nine years ago. We can’t afford to lose more war assets. Two other GCF ships are within FTL range. Wait there for thirty minutes. Do not answer any hails. Do not engage. When the other ships arrive, approach in coordinated flanking positions with full weapons and await further instructions. Intrepid 2: Understood. If they move?

GCFC: Shoot them down. It’s not worth the risk. We can salvage the hardware later. CHAPTER 27

DEMI

“Within these walls, the war doesn’t exist.”

Since arriving in Cluster space, Demi uttered those words so many times—in

a public address to the entire crew, in personal discussions with worried

individuals, to herself when she doubted herself. She probably said it to Indy at one point or another too. Most times, she didn’t believe it. Maybe she never did. But at the very least, it

set a goal, something to strive for as long as she captained the Horizon. She’d tried. And during everything with Lynn, she realized it was a delusion

or a fallacy. But now, she realized it was even worse than that. It was a mistake. Adapting was how they survived in the well. She, of all the members of the

Horizon, failed to adapt to life after that. The fallout of this war a ected anyone

within the Cluster and beyond, a chain reaction that wove through the walls of a

single ship. Because they were stranded. Stranded. This marked the second time Demi had heard that as captain of the Horizon. Was that two more times than most captains got?

When the Horizon set out ten years ago, it was her dream assignment—to

explore the unexplored, forging paths that made the galaxy seem a little smaller, a

little more accessible. Ever since her rst visit to the enormous holographic stellar

cartography chart at the academy, she simply knew. Talking about trade routes might have bored most people, but the actual purpose of the paths didn’t

matter. What mattered was the discovery process, identifying safe and clear travel

lanes free of asteroid elds, star radiation, or unexplained phenomena. The Horizon had been commissioned to chart into the unknown and

beyond, and Demi stood at the helm. Demi still recalled the excitement rippling through the ship’s science lab

when scanners picked up something strange—so di erent and unexplainable

and completely invisible to anyone staring outside the bridge’s large front

window. And, unfortunately for their science team, something with measurements

that didn’t repeat or follow any patterns. Speculation turned to panic when the ship’s thrusters failed to respond. “Maximum thrust is not enough, Captain!” Followed by, “What is that?”

That—as in the glowing pink blanket of the gravity well. And then the sobering words from the seat next to her as Grant—the

steadiest person Demi had ever own with—spoke with a very uncharacteristic

waver in his voice. “Captain, our navigational readings show that we’re… a hundred sixty

thousand light-years from our last known location?” Controls chirped as the

di erent stations updated systems and sensor outputs. “Propulsion is active, but

we’re unable to move.”

Silence cascaded over the bridge, and Demi knew her next choice of words

and actions would de ne the tone of this catastrophe. “Commander, go oversee a diagnostic of our scanning systems, then run

those scans again when ready.”

Grant nodded as he stood up, the steadiness back in his voice. “Helm, load an

extended database of reference points to triangulate. We need as many ways to

verify this as possible—”

“Captain, we’re being hailed. A vessel, about two hundred thousand

kilometers away. According to the ship’s registry…” Lynn had said at the time,

her voice so much more frantic than the sardonic woman she’d become. “The

registry says it’s a supply ship reported missing seven months ago?”

Demi had stolen a second to absorb how two, maybe three minutes might

have changed everything for them. But then she responded, establishing a

di erent kind of rst contact. Not with a new species or culture, but with the rst ship to get lost in the

Lumersian energy well. And the rst steps to forming a colony of some sort. Just like ten years ago, the Horizon was stranded, and the means to get out of

this situation were murky at best. Unlike then, Demi did not have a full crew for

repairs and scans. She didn’t have Grant Singh to lean on. Nor did she have the

gradual arrival of other ships to exchange ideas and resources. Instead, she had dead invaders. And dead crew—at least Diaz, possibly more. And the Horizon itself was damaged. She supposed the one asset she had was

Neera’s friend Sadler, whose expertise on both systems might have rivaled

Neera’s. In fact, Sadler might have been even more helpful, given his longer span

in working with Cluster engine technology. She stood, poised over the large display on her desk. Only a minute or two

had passed since speaking to Neera, with systems still booting up. “Computer,

give me the location of all crew members with life signs and their locations on

this ship.” At least that worked. The display showed a two-dimensional cross-

section of the Horizon, soon populated with dots attached to oating names, a

comprehensive view only accessed by senior o cers. Neera, Matthews, and

Sadler were in engineering. Tanav’s icon blinked several times before locking

onto his comm-boosted signal, putting him in engineering as well. “Tarell to Kim.”

Casey’s hushed voice came over the comm, and Demi saw her icon moving

slowly through the crew deck. “Casey,” Demi said. “We seem to be all clear. Are

you all right?”

“I dented my door pretty good with my chair.” The WM must have locked all

crew quarter doors, not just Demi’s. “So that needs repairs.”

“The map shows Aurora’s still in her quarters. Can you check on her and

then stay there until further orders?” Demi scanned the map again, and though

she did see those two, too many names simply didn’t appear. Her nails dug into

her palm, a quiet, desperate hope that sensors just hadn’t fully reactivated yet. “I need to assess damage and…” Her voice trailed o , unsure if she should say

“casualties” just yet. “Damage and impact rst.”

“Understood.” The reply came prompt and clipped, a clear wall against more

things to be said. There would be a lot of that coming very soon. “I just need a few minutes,” she said. “But I owe everyone an apology.”

Casey took several seconds before speaking again. “Yeah, you do.”

Demi stole a moment with Indy, who lay blissfully unaware. As she felt the

warmth of a snoring greyhound next to her, her eyes stayed on the display, a

silent urge for more names to appear. She allowed herself sixty seconds before

accepting the reality that they were all dead, and the Horizon’s skeleton crew was

as damaged as its propulsion. The Horizon had lost crew before. To raiders, to accidents, to suicide. This was di erent. Previous deaths came in the grips of surviving the well and everything with it. Here, Demi made the choices. She’d pushed to keep the Horizon out of the war. She’d argued that her crew needed time and space. She chose to steal the ship. Her mind raced with theoreticals: What if they’d crossed to Theta Seven

instead?

What if she’d worked with Matthews?

What if she’d hunted for the spy

herself?

She shut that down fast. She’d been through enough to realize that what-ifs

didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was what existed. Sixty seconds came and went, a hard stop for introspection. She had to pull

everyone together. That was what she did, what she always did. But how?

That

question de ed an answer as Demi kissed her ngers and tapped Chuck’s

containment unit, rerouted the translation matrix output to the engine room,

and leaned to quickly scratch Indy’s ear. Then she set o .

Demi walked with tablet in hand, a short summary from Neera about the

extent of the damage. None of that detailed how the WM threat was handled, or

who handled it. Nor did it say anything about how Lynn was left oating in space. Neera had pointed out that he had only told Tanav that Lynn was “missing.”

Perhaps that was how he understood it as well. Something needed to bridge that

assessment and the strange ashes Demi saw through her window. Lynn’s open-mouthed, wide-eyed look, a layer of crystalized ice over her skin

—the image stayed present. Plenty of research examined the human body in

space, yet the abject horror of such an experience made Demi push those lessons

deep into her memory for now. Spy or not, Demi hoped that Lynn was spared that. Demi stepped into the elevator and waited while the lift accelerated. Usually,

these quiet moments in between choices and confrontations helped her stay

grounded—a time-honored survival mechanism that leveraged context. Like

when an entire crew needed someone to put a brave face on. Or when she was

alone, a smart-ass quip in her mind to center herself. The elevator’s location blinked on the lit display, descending from the bridge

past the mess hall, then the science lab, before slowing to a halt on deck four. The doors opened, and Demi took one more glance at the damage assessment, a

report that updated in real time, with Sadler adding additional notes. Details indicated some kind of shoot-out between the WM soldiers and her

crew. Which made this even more curious—who among the crew would have

been able to outgun them?

Neera and Sadler were engineers; Tanav’s baking

skills were probably better than his shooting abilities. That left Matthews. Demi braced for his inevitable I told you so. Probably loaded with a whole lot

of anger. All of that would need addressing. The entrance to engineering sat adjacent to the elevator bay, yet the walk

seemed a mile long. She stopped just outside the doors’ activation sensor range. Instead of moving forward, she told herself to take a few breaths for herself and

only for herself. This might be her only foreseeable chance to do so. CHAPTER 28

TANAV

When Tanav was eight, his parents took him to the Lexin Industries year-end

gala for the rst time, a one-day cruise ship similar to the Crystal Dreams but on

a much smaller scale. Its tinted open dome allowed for a view of a nearby nebula

as donors and sponsors celebrated annual accomplishments, with his parents,

Nova and Rolf Lexin, playing the gracious hosts. He’d heard about these events

his entire childhood, marveling at the way his parents dressed for it. Yet when

experienced rsthand, the whole thing was really, really boring. Except for the band. A six-piece band playing a variety of the era’s popular

songs—a glori ed cover-song band at best, but his rst real exposure to live

music, and it wove di erently into his young body than simply listening to a

recording. “Well?” Nova Lexin asked, snapping him to attention. “Tanav, is there

anything you’d like to say?”

“Thank you for being part of the Lexin family.”

He’d said that from table to table as directed, but no one seemed satis ed

with it. An assistant followed Tanav’s mother, and they spoke quickly. Tanav

looked up at his father and asked something that came from a mix of curiosity,

boredom, and fatigue:

“Why are we doing this?”

Rather than get mad or show irritation, his father knelt down on his level and

said something that burned into Tanav’s psyche. Probably not the way Nova and

Rolf intended, but those very words tinted Tanav’s understanding of how people operated. “If you’re ever going to make a mark in the galaxy, you need to

learn to ask questions that nd opportunities,” he said, like this was normal

parent-child conversation. Though for Rolf Lexin, it might have been the only way he knew how to

connect with an eight-year-old. Especially after several drinks. “You can get what you need by giving people what they want—especially if

they don’t know it,” he continued. “Every discussion is like…” His voice trailed

o , his eyes watering for a moment before snapping back into focus. “Every

discussion is like a hostage negotiation. Each side wants something. And that

means there’s always a resolution.” Tanav nodded at this, unsure as to what that

meant. Instead, he kept glancing at the band—which his father noticed. “Here’s

what we need. Say your line as happy, as fun as you can. Then you can go listen

to the music. You understand?

If you do it wrong, no music.” Tanav nodded

again, but this time the very idea of being close to the music drove his

enthusiasm. At the rest of the tables, Tanav glanced at the band before saying his line. And

every time, his parents approved. Two things stayed with Tanav for the rest of his life: the way people were so

malleable that the smallest changes in phrasing lulled them to vulnerability. That, and the experience of music. He hated the former. And he loved the latter. Ironically, the music alienated him from his family but brought him here—

and the way his parents taught him to think, it could be inverted for something

much better. It could bring people together in dire circumstances. Like when a

neighboring ship traversed the gravity well to raid the Horizon for supplies, he

could talk them down and turn an act of aggression into a mutual

understanding of needs. Yet as he stood unsure in engineering, none of those skills worked. No one

talked. Nothing had gone as planned and no one had next steps. After Neera

spoke to Demi, he moved straight to Macek, moving the body to the far corner

of the room before kneeling next to him; the Dywen placed both of his hands on

Macek’s cheeks and bowed his head. Near the main doors, he watching Sadler hunch over smoking pieces of propulsion technology and remove damaged

pieces from the base of the control console, a steady rhythm to his actions: scan,

tinker, remove, and repeat, all with precise, intense movements. Then there was Matthews. He carried the highest rank here, though he didn’t

give anyone orders. He simply stood, his injured leg propped up against a

makeshift crutch. Matthews wanted to protect the Horizon’s comm hardware,

which they had. And since the WM was no longer on the ship, that mission was

successful. Now what did he want?

To get the Horizon operational again?

Or something

else?

Matthews wasn’t exactly subtle, and his quiet observations may have been

just that—information gathering to understand the current landscape. In this room stood Neera, Sadler, and Matthews. But what about everyone else?

Hikaru and Karl remained in stellar

cartography, but so many others were unaccounted for. Wasn’t there still a spy

on board?

And where was Lynn?

Tanav managed to get that particular question out, to which Sadler quickly

replied, “We should wait until Captain Kim arrives to debrief.”

Neera broke from his ritual for a moment, and while he still knelt still with

one hand on Macek’s forehead, he paused only to say that a full assessment must

be made. But Neera’s low voice told him that something was really wrong with

Tanav’s…

Tanav’s what?

In his universe, relationships didn’t use titles like girlfriend or wife or

partner. They existed as states: enjoyment, companionship, committed, long-

committed. Thaddea was on the cusp of committed and long-committed. With

Lynn, they’d never really talked about it, though the way they’d con ded hopes

and fears with each other, well, that marked the companionship stage. And now unavailable. “Transmission,” Tanav said, hitting his communicator. “Lexin to Kohli.”

Nothing. Neera shot him a quick glance before he resumed bowing his head. Behind Tanav, the familiar hydraulic sound of sliding double doors came, and

he turned to see Demi stepping in. Since coming to the Horizon four years ago, Tanav recognized Demi’s

di erent modes of operation. If he ever called that out, she’d deny it—perhaps

half jokingly, but she’d still stick to it. Demi wore an inscrutable look on her face:

lines of concern, a narrow gaze of suspicion, and tense, pursed lips. Yet her

shoulders carried a barely visible slump, signs that even with her businesslike

facade, uncertainty weighed her down. None of that was comforting. “Is this still the latest?” she asked, holding up a tablet of multiple charts and

tables. No jokes, no greetings. The dynamics all carved di erent lines of tension

between Demi and the other people in the room. Matthews sent her an

unblinking glare. And while Sadler kept working on the engine, he spoke up. “It is. It’s bad. But it could be worse. I have ideas, though.” He tapped the

outer shell of the engine’s frame. “I have some resources in my ship. I brought

some supplies, gured we’d be tinkering with stu .

Didn’t expect it to be after

battle damage, though.”

Neera simply nodded, continuing his work, and Tanav knew he’d shut down. There would be no getting through to him. “How are you, Tanav?” Demi said, her soft tone surprising him. Which, at

rst, he appreciated. But immediately his mind turned to Lynn. What did Demi know?

Was that why Neera refused to say anything, because

he deferred to his commanding o cer?

“I followed Commander Matthews,” he said quietly. Though he could feel

Matthews’s anger at Demi, the commander seemed military enough to know to

save that. Ranks, secrets, strategy, those types of things likely held him back for

now. “He got us through it.” He glanced over at Neera still standing over Macek,

like he was on guard watch. “Hikaru and Karl are dead. We found them in stellar

cartography.”

Her lack of reaction proved surprising. In the well, she’d held things tight

during acute situations, but the ship was safe and stable, her grieving surfaced in

palpable ways. Yet right now her face remained cold, almost like a mask over her

true self. Tanav glanced at everyone in the room, all eyes still on Demi. “Is there

any word on Lynn yet?” he asked. “Where is she?”

Demi’s eyes searched his own for… something. But whatever it was, she

appeared unable to nd it, and she nally broke, softer creases around her

mouth and eyes. “I need one moment on that. I promise. Commander

Matthews?” She turned to him. “I owe you a discussion. But not right now. Do

you require medical assistance?

Our med bay isn’t the most stocked, but it has

supplies.”

“At some point, yeah,” he said, his weight still supported by his ri e. He

groaned as he straightened out. “And at some point, we need to talk.” The word

talk caused a rare ush to Demi’s cheeks. “But I think we really need to

understand what just happened. Don’t you?” He turned to Sadler, who ignored

him and stayed working on the engine. “Don’t you?

In fact, I’d like to know

what’s going on with that device of yours.” Demi was all business. Sadler’s full-

speed-ahead mentality didn’t t this situation. And Matthews, he was on the

o ensive. Three di erent strategies, but Tanav still struggled with why they were

at odds. “I think that’s an explanation you owe all of us, Sadler,” Demi said. “What is

this mystery tech?

How does it work?

Why are there bodies oating in space?”

Mystery tech?

Macek’s body lay by Neera. They found Hikaru and Karl. But bodies oating

in space?

That couldn’t mean…

“Where’s Lynn?” Tanav stepped forward, his voice uncharacteristically sharp,

drawing everyone’s attention. Soon followed by a rapid- re exchange of glances, a

sequence that made it feel like something was very, very wrong. Demi held a hand up, pursed lips and crinkled brow that came far more

loaded than she probably intended. “I’m sorry, Tanav. Lynn was the spy on our crew.”

For several seconds before Demi spoke, Tanav knew something was clearly

wrong, and those thoughts started to creep in as soon as Sadler dodged

questions. But a spy?

That couldn’t be true. That didn’t make any sense. She’d committed to the

photonic engine. She wanted to help the Lumersians. She told Tanav he should have a choice about going home. “What…” he started, though words failed as the truth of the moment sunk in. His ngers curled, tightened knuckles echoing the sti ness that suddenly pulled

him from the inside. His entire sense of being crushed from the outside in, like

so many of the ships that got stuck in the gravity well. Like the Crystal Dreams. “Where is she now?

Is she in the brig?”

“She’s dead,” Demi said. “I’m sorry.”

“That can’t be true,” Tanav whispered through forced breaths. “I’m very—”

“That can’t be true.” He spun on his heel and stormed over to Neera. “And

you knew?” He turned to Sadler. “You knew?” Then back to Demi. “How did

everyone know?

No, we can’t—”

Tanav’s mind had moved so quickly that it had skipped over the very

information that got them here. Sadler had a device. He saw Sadler use it on a

WM raider. He saw the aftermath of pure, sudden disappearance. Bodies in space. “You killed her!” Tanav’s voice echoed o engineering’s walls. “She was a spy,” Sadler said coldly, and Tanav felt a sudden urge to hit him for

every single clinical science statement he’d ever said, every single stupid grin he’d

ever ashed. “That doesn’t matter.” His words seethed through his teeth, and from

behind, Demi’s hand landed on his upper arm. He threw it o and turned back

around. “In space?

She was oating in space?”

Neera took a slow step forward. “The group that shot Macek included

Lynn.” His voice came out heavy, at a far lower register than Tanav had ever

heard from him. “However, it should be noted that Lynn did not want to hurt

any of us. Lynn wanted to protect Macek. Our safety was her goal. She was my

friend.” Neera’s hands pressed against the angles of his head, a gesture that Tanav

did not fully understand, though it must have gone with the Dywen’s visible

distress. “She was my friend. She was my friend.”

“I spoke with Lynn shortly before she went to engineering.” Demi broke o

for a moment, and as she did, Matthews hobble-stepped forward. “She let the

WM on board. But…” Tanav struggled against the weight of air coming in and out of his lungs and turned to Demi to hear this. “It’s not that simple.” She

looked at Sadler. “None of it is, is it?”

Sadler set down his tools and plucked a small control device from his belt. “This tech is something I’ve been working on. It targets matter and moves it to a

localized spot.”

“ ‘Moves it to a localized spot.’ Do you mean…” Demi squinted at the small

gray rectangle in his hand, like such a little device might have all the answers to

the galaxy in them. “Teleportation?” Matthews’s face twisted in ways that Tanav

couldn’t read, but the commander de nitely didn’t expect that. “Not technically. But functionally, yes.” Sadler held up an arm and pulled

down his sleeve to reveal a small white cu .

“With this cu , you can target an

exit point. Within a reasonable distance, of course. Without one”—he pointed

out toward the south wall of the engine room—“you just kind of get moved in a

general direction. Which can break apart the atoms in the same way as if you hit

a tree or a wall or something like that. Unless you send them into space. Space is

pretty empty.”

Space. Bodies oating in space. It all went back to Lynn, freezing to death in space. All the things he was going to tell her, to ask her, things for her to consider as

they got closer to a potential way home for him, their next steps…

Gone. Lost to a cold vacuum of nothing. Lost to the war. “Lieutenant Sadler, I’d like a word with you in private,” Demi said, shaking

Tanav back into the moment. “I think we’ve got pressing matters here?” Sadler asked. He tapped the open

panels of the photonic engine. “Yeah, about that,” Matthews said. “Captain Kim, one quick word rst.”

“Commander, I owe you time, but I—”

The oor clinked as his ri e-cane moved. “Just for a moment.”

Demi’s gaze swept the entire space, rst looking at Matthews before meeting

Tanav’s eyes. And Neera. Lingering on Macek’s still body. Then at Sadler, before

returning to Matthews. She nodded at him, and the two moved to the foot of

the entry ramp. They only spoke for several seconds. In that span, however, Tanav felt a weight land on his shoulder. He looked up

to see Neera staring straight ahead. They waited together, quiet, as their own

tiny fragment of the galaxy continued to churn. Matthews turned and hobbled back down the ramp. “I’m familiar with the

ship schematics and crew roster. I’ll do a full assessment.”

“Get in touch with Aurora Sterling and Casey Tarell. I asked them to stay in

Aurora’s quarters until further notice,” Demi said, and despite her short stature,

she suddenly loomed over everyone in the space. “Sadler, you’re with me.”

He moved rst, and once he passed Demi, she turned as well. For the rst time since she came into engineering, Tanav noticed a lump

tucked into the waist of her uniform. Was Demi hiding a gun?

CHAPTER 29

NEERA

The athkowa was the Dywen mourning ritual, a way to honor the fallen from

the pack. It called for the mourner to kneel next to the deceased with bowed

head while placing hands on each side of their face. This physical action was

done in conjunction with an internal calling out, a search for the pack member’s

presence—and when that pack member could not be detected after twelve such

calls, the mourner would focus on the strongest memory between them to

forever tie their bond. Neera had done it whenever possible for the Horizon’s fallen. And he had done what he could for Macek. He told himself that he would

for Hikaru and Karl as well. Since Demi left, Matthews used the engineering display to check hardware

status and station operation. But he used a di erent type of scan to search for

body locations, a trick he said he’d picked up during active combat situations. It

con rmed their fears—Ali was also dead, and her body lay in the science lab. Neera would perform the athkowa for her too. But Lynn?

He didn’t have the luxury of belief under the Regent Empire. Yet here, he

found himself reaching out, empathic senses grasping for something. Despite

seeing her disappear. Despite feeling her presence evaporate. Nothing. Over and over again. Nothing—no emotional connection oated

on the other side, no tangible feeling to provide hope out of disaster. Nothing. Nothing could be done for Lynn. Though Neera performed an

empathic search, the athkowa ritual required a body to make that forever bond. With Lynn, all they could do was remember her. Strangely, even though their connection via Lynn had severed, Neera still

intuitively received Tanav’s deep turmoil. He supposed that was how packs

should work. Even with non-Dywens. “I get it,” Matthews said on his comm, to either Aurora or Casey. Neera

missed which one he had spoken to rst. “I’m pissed o too. Take a moment if

you need it.”

Matthews had been the only one to speak since Demi and Sadler left, though

he’d only used comms with Aurora and Casey. Tanav withdrew, staring at a

scanner that he likely did not know how to use. Neera considered nding a sheet

to place over Macek’s body, when Tanav nally broke. “I don’t…” Tanav said, his

words coming slow as if he waited for breath to form before he might be able to

express himself. “I can’t… a spy?

She was a spy?

I’ve known her for years. But we

just got…” He glanced down at the blinking OFFLINE message on the adjacent

display. “We got close only in the past year. I just wonder if she was using me.”

The gradual revelation of Tanav’s relationship with Lynn marked a surprising

turn over recent weeks, and Neera hadn’t asked her about it—mostly because

the intense complexity of those types of human relationships still failed to make

sense to him compared to Dywen pack units. Right after Demi discovered it, she

told him, “They’ll talk to us about it when they’re ready,” and then…

To use a human phrase, all hell broke loose. For now, Neera tried his best to convert feelings into words, a map of cause

and e ect laying out in his mind. “Your relationship with Lynn began when?”

Tanav cracked a smile. “It was just one night, a few months before we escaped

the well. The night the Hallidar imploded next to us. Listening to archival music

and wondering if we would be next. There’s this historic band she loves called

Rilo Kiley.” Tanav caught himself, a shadow falling across his expression. “Loved, I suppose. She wanted to play me their entire catalog. We put on these

songs about longing and hopelessness. It t, you know?

One minute we’re

talking about the lyrics, and the next minute it just kind of happened. I

remember it so speci cally. It was a song called ‘Silver Lining.’ She said I was that to her, and I didn’t know what it meant. I still don’t know, honestly. We don’t

have that term.”

Neera watched as Tanav’s demeanor gradually lifted, the power of release

through the spoken word. “Our time together wasn’t supposed to mean anything. We just needed it

then. Because our situation was horrifying if you stopped to look at it. I think we

both felt like, if the engine didn’t work, if the gravity well imploded, if the

Horizon itself imploded, we could at least exist outside of all that for a little

while. We kept it private, though. You know, our group had been through so

much and had gotten so small, we thought it might feel weird to someone. But

something changed after the jump.” Tanav’s face turned upward, his gaze locked

to a very benign, very blank bit of wall paneling in the engine room. “A few

weeks after we landed here, we were talking about the miracle of making it out

of the well. She said she knew she could never be Thaddea or the home that I

miss. She got that. And she said that despite that, maybe we could be something

new and di erent. Not better or worse. Just di erent, like we were in that

moment. No gravity well. No Thaddea. No Lexin Industries. Only us, right

there. It took a while to accept that.” His shoulders fell. “Now I just keep

wondering if it was a game, a way for her to get intel.”

The most obvious, simplest point of deduction appeared in Neera’s engineer

brain, a reality of math that Tanav somehow missed in his grief. Perhaps that

realization was a victim of the suddenness of events, and Neera took it upon

himself to make the connection that Tanav’s emotions missed. “Truth can exist

in several di erent ways at once. The Withdrawal Movement is a political

movement that called to Lynn. At the same time, her feelings for you were

clearly natural. All evidence leads to that conclusion.”

“You think so?” Tanav asked. “Is that what your pack… thing… tells you?”

“A simpler explanation exists. Lieutenant was Lynn’s rank, and

communications o cer was her role.” Neera pointed at his rank bars on his

uniform. “Lynn did not need you to provide intel to the WM. Your rank was too

low to be of importance.”

An unexpected laugh came from Tanav, and he mirrored Neera’s movement

by tapping on his own rank bars. “That makes perfect sense.” Matthews, of all of them, did not laugh, though he appeared to be biting down on his bottom lip. “Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”

“Is that sarcasm?

It is di cult for me to detect.”

“There’s always a little truth in sarcasm,” Tanav said. “You know, I was torn. With us going back to the well. The possibilities…” He turned to the wall’s

navigation chart, the same one that seemed to occupy Matthews. A blinking

triangle showed the Horizon and a spread of dots and icons, scaled far enough

back to show the eventual estimated path to the Lumersian well far beyond the

Cluster’s borders. “She knew I was committed to going home. But what she

didn’t know was that I wanted her to come with me. Regardless of Thaddea. I

guess it’s not an issue anymore.” Tanav’s last sentence came out low and dry, a

crackle to his voice that told Neera that much lay underneath that glib

sentiment. He chose to stay quiet, though based on what he’d intuited from

Lynn, Neera felt certain she would have said yes—had things been di erent. Her feelings were that strong. When Tanav was ready, Neera would tell him

that. Tanav took in a long, slow breath. “I still don’t know what’s worse,” he

nally said, his voice barely above the thrum of the diagnostic equipment. “The

fact that she’s gone or the fact that she betrayed us.” Now his eyebrows angled,

and gritted teeth formed visible lumps on his cheeks. “We just got here. How

could she throw in with them so quickly?

I don’t even understand all of this.”

Neera considered the question and thought through it with the same analysis

he would use on a circuit that needed rewiring. “I suppose I did not discuss

politics with anyone. The di erences in perspectives were very confusing. Our

constant state of survival in the well was likely the reason for this. However, in

my universe, the Regent Empire eliminated any voices of dissent. Conscious

dissent was not possible,” Neera said. “Dissent is evidence of a functioning

society. It has not had the idea of action scared out of it yet.” It was strange,

talking about Lynn like this. Not that long ago, they’d been caught on the

outside of the Horizon together, magnetic boots clamping down for repairs as

she made jokes to Demi over the comm. He pictured her now, her half-conscious

face as he pulled on her tether. Yet his mind pivoted quickly, the sheen of the white cocoon and the panic in

her voice as she cried for him to help her. “It is possible for Lynn to have pushed her empathy for those ideals into

actions that we both do not understand, all while having feelings for you or

being friends with me. The complexity of the individual means that many truths

exist at once. She was my friend, and I trusted her.” Strange. The word repeated

over and over in his head. Perhaps not for humans, but the way that she toed the

line, being close with Neera and Demi and even closer to Tanav. How did they

live these separate lives?

From the Dywen pack to the forceful nature of the

Regent Empire, Neera’s life had played out in such a straight line. Even with

their time in the gravity well, everything focused on survival, resources, science,

knowledge of the most impossible situation. Lynn’s choices only reinforced Neera’s fundamental understanding of the

chaotic nature of humans. And yet, she was still his friend. He still mourned her. Clearly, Tanav did too. While Demi put up a stoic front, he imagined that

deep inside, she did as well. “And though she chose to join something responsible for a violence that I do

not agree with,” Neera said, “I shall miss her.”

Matthews approached, a repeating cadence of metallic clamp followed by a

footstep, though instead of stopping at Tanav, he approached Neera. “Need any

help with repairs?” he said, his voice with less of its usual gru edge. “I still got

two good arms and a working head.”

Neera angled at Tanav, the glow from the engineering console now casting an

orange hue across his brown cheeks. “There are tasks where you may be of

assistance if you wish, at least until the others return.”

“One way or another, these systems need repairing,” Tanav said. “How can I

help?”

Matthews tilted his chin up at that, though Tanav didn’t respond. Something

existed between the two of them, though what exactly that was, Neera couldn’t

tell. Strange. More of that strangeness, that balance between two di erent states

of mind. Neera started to respond when a high-pitched squeal came from a side

engineering console, a frequency piercing enough that both Tanav and

Matthews winced. Neera understood what it meant, and he quickly stepped

over and began tapping at the screen. One look con rmed the two parts of his

hunch:

First, Demi must have output the Lumersian translation matrix over to

engineering. Second, they’d just received a new transmission. The display changed to a combination of audio waveforms and text as it

processed the incoming data. The words lled in gradually, and while coherent

sentences would likely take time to sort out previously unknown language

elements, a phrase came through. Tanav gasped, Matthews squinted, and Neera

considered why that speci city would be in the translation matrix. Then he realized it: part of the translation matrix was based on Chuck’s logs. And Chuck considered Tanav Lexin a friend. Chuck knew his history. “A spacecraft from Lexin Industries.”

CHAPTER 30

DEMI

Weeks ago, Demi wondered how Colin Sadler had the time and energy to know

so much about the photonic engine, the synth generator, and their journey out

of the gravity well—all while helping the war e ort on the front lines. His

answers, his data, they seemed miraculous. And while it was authentic and

veri ed on a scienti c level by Neera, Demi let her desperation for success

overlook one very obvious point. The miracle was not in the numbers. The miracle was in the fact that a

support engineer dealing with the daily impacts of brutal con ict could

somehow calculate those numbers. Sadler’s hiding something. Matthews whispered that to her when he pulled her aside. Not a word about

how he awoke drugged or how a member of the Horizon was a spy or the fact

that the WM invaded the ship. Of all the commander’s concerns, he led with

that—and only that. Before they’d jumped, Demi thanked Sadler for risking everything for a

captain he’d never met, a species he didn’t know. “I think the photonic engine is

the future,” he’d said. That took on a completely di erent weight now. And now

that they were alone together, she intended to nd out what lay underneath his

bold claim. “My guess is,” Demi said, breaking the silence, “that teleportation tech is not

something left over from your high school science fair.”

Sadler’s laugh bounced o the hallway walls, a casual friendliness to it that

seemed both charming and o -putting given the situation. “Not exactly.” Several seconds passed between them before he picked up on

Demi’s cue. “I’ve been studying the intricacies of photonic science since the

Horizon returned. Its potential and the applications are boundless. Photons and

matter and energy working interchangeably. Consider that. If only the powers

that be would let us use it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is that why you’re here?

The pursuit of science?” Demi gestured at the

Horizon’s hallway. “The ‘potential’ of this ship?”

“I don’t see why it matters. The bottom line is that this tech saved us. We

were in an extreme circumstance. I chose to use it.” Sadler paused, and Demi let

him wait this out, a forceful steering of the conversation. “You sound doubtful.”

Demi looked at the contradictions in front of her. Neera trusted him, but did

he really know him?

They’d collaborated for months, but that didn’t necessarily

mean that Sadler underwent proper vetting. Sadler’s hiding something. “Who are you?” Demi asked. “We’re in life-and-death circumstances. Halfway to a photonic gravity well, outside of Cluster communications range. In that room, I know my crew. I may not like Matthews, but I know people like

him. I don’t know you, though.”

Sadler raised an eyebrow. “Are you curious about my parents, my brother, our

family cats?

You didn’t have an issue trusting me when you wanted to steal the

Horizon.”

Valid, almost enough reason to not say anything more. Still, Sadler could use

his device on any of them, at any time, for any reason. “No one got teleported into space back then. When you no longer have the

power to turn any of us into a Popsicle, I’ll stop asking for transparency.”

“Fair enough.” Sadler nodded as he reached behind him. Demi heard

something unlatch, then his hands came up quick. She remained still, bracing

herself not to inch at his sudden gesture—one hand empty, but the

teleportation control in the other. “Do you want to inspect this up close?”

Strapped to Demi’s back belt sat a small energy pistol, a safeguard she’d

grabbed on the way. She felt its weight there, the way the metal dug into the

small of her back. Did Sadler know it was there?

The only time he might have

possibly seen was when he passed her on the way out of the engine room. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she said, waving her hand. “How about this?” Sadler reached into his back pocket and held out another

cu .

“Watch this.” She took it, though she didn’t put it on yet. Instead, she

watched as Sadler tapped on his own to bring status lights to life. The control

device in his other hand beeped in sync, and he pointed down the hallway. “Precision targeting. I’m just going right down there.” Before Demi could

respond, the lights on his cu shifted to a blinking blue, then a cocoon of white

light enveloped him, and while her eyes adjusted to the sudden intense ash, the

same thing brought him back by the doors. “You see?” Sadler called out as he

walked back. “It doesn’t have to leave people oating in space. Wanna give it a

try?”

He made it look simple, benign. Perhaps one day this technology would be. But right now, hedging her bets felt much smarter. “I’m good for now. But you can tell me why the GCF funds that project yet

doesn’t want the Horizon’s engine running.”

“Ah. The bureaucrat concerns. Captain, you outrank me, but that’s

classi ed.”

That word was not what she expected. Classi ed did not always mean

justi ed. Ark Getru proved that. Matthews suspected him quickly; Demi kicked

herself for being too blind to match the commander’s insight. “Not good

enough, Lieutenant.”

“What is good enough?” Sadler’s tone shifted, picking up a at seriousness

that wasn’t there before, “I am committed to making the photonic engine work. Does that meet your standard?

I thought you were trying to keep the war out of

the Horizon.”

Several dots connected rapidly for Demi. She should have inspected the

module—in fact, she should have opened it up. Because if she had, she was

certain she knew what powered such a device. It needed photonic energy. That was the throughline with all of this. Demi

now understood why he felt it was limitless. Sadler had found a way to weaponize photonic energy. But how?

And who was he loyal to?

Matthews was here at the behest of Command. He wanted to put the

photonic engine in storage and bring the Horizon to the war. But who pulled

Sadler’s strings?

“No, Lieutenant. It doesn’t meet my standards. I need more. You have

unknown, untested, undocumented technology that I haven’t heard about. Commander Matthews clearly hasn’t heard about it. So, if you get some sort of

reprimand for divulging classi ed material, you can blame me.” The urge to

smirk pulsed through her body, and Demi made a calculated choice to let it

through and see how he might react. “I’m already in enough hot water.” What

she left unsaid was that that inevitability created a freedom to face Sadler head-

on. “I’m telling you,” he said in a teasing tone, “it’s classi ed. As in a ‘I could tell

you but then I’d have to kill you’ kind of way.” The playfulness remained, but a

much sharper edge crept in, and in doing so, another epiphany came to Demi. During her years at the academy, rumors swirled of a black ops team known

as Oversight—whether that was an o cial name or a nickname, no one knew. They were a punch line within the eet, often a joking threat: “Oversight will

come for you if you don’t pass your nal exam” or “Watch out for any Oversight

stowaways before you leave spacedock.”

No single piece of evidence ever proved their existence. Until now. Who else could drive this type of research?

Demi kept her eyes trained on him while speaking into her comm link. She

didn’t have Grant with her, but someone else came with that level of expertise. And in this moment, Demi chose to trust him. “Transmission: Kim to Matthews.”

Matthews’s voice cut into the hallway. “I’m listening, Captain.”

“Commander, I am standing in the hallway just beyond the deck four

elevator with Commander Sadler. Mark the time. One or both of us will be back

in shortly.”

Several seconds passed, yet Demi didn’t check for a stable connection. She

knew that Matthews would be interpreting what that meant. “I get you,

Captain. Matthews out.”

“Lieutenant, I need to know what that tech is and why it’s on my ship,”

Demi said, resisting the urge to blink as she stared Sadler in the face. “That has

nothing to do with xing the engine.”

Demi had her own suspicions, but she wanted him to say that his interest in

the Lumersions was not magnanimous. “That is where you’re wrong, Captain.” Sadler ran his free hand over the layer

of dark scru on his chin. “It does have everything to do with the engine. We’ve

been trying to crack safe teleportation for years. But we only had a breakthrough

when the Horizon returned. The photonic e ect, the way matter pulls into the

photonic dimension and uses it as a conduit—on a small, localized scale, you

don’t need convergence points. You just need the right way to connect the

physical and the photonic. Like a drip of water through cracks in a wall.”

“Oversight wants to exploit this for their own purposes.” There. She named

it. And he didn’t even react. “It’s a tool. Just like starships are a tool. The con ict between the Cluster and

the Withdrawal Movement will end at some point. And what you don’t know,

what none of you know,” Sadler said, gesturing in a wide circle, “is that there are

threats far beyond some guerrilla groups who are mad about FTL fuel. We need

all the tools we can get. This tool”—he tapped the cu —“got me undetected to

the WM ship, handled their remaining crew, and back here so I could safeguard

the Horizon. It’s useful and it’s powerful.”

Demi considered reaching for the pistol right now and taking Sadler out. She

could get away with this—if she was fast enough. Right when she considered that, the elevator behind her chimed and opened. Sadler turned and looked. Demi took a step back to create some space between them. Out stepped Aurora and Casey, every line and angle on their faces heavier and

harsher than before. Matthews must have talked to them, but Demi wasn’t sure

what they knew. Sadler nodded in acknowledgment at them, and Demi

considered all the di erent scenarios here. If what he said about the WM ship was true, Sadler had the tech to take them

all out now, and quite easily. So he wasn’t an immediate threat. Matthews, as

angry as he might be, seemed to be on her side. She just owed him one massive

apology later. Casey stared forward. Aurora looked at the oor. Neither of them probably

knew the scope of what had happened just yet. They were stranded. Sadler was capable of xing the photonic engine. They

also had an empty WM ship with experimental FTL tech. She couldn’t let her focus drift from Sadler here. But she released just enough

to address the incoming pair. “Neera and Tanav are in engineering. They could

use your help while we nish debrie ng.”

Both walked right past her. Facing the loss of command caused Demi to panic. Facing Lynn’s betrayal

caused her to be furious—and facing the death of so many crew members

burrowed grief deep into that fury. And the reactions from Casey and Aurora,

they showed that con icts aboard the Horizon continued to fester. One time in the well, right after the Crystal Dreams imploded, Demi and

Grant stood alone in the observation lounge, staring at the oating remains of

the massive cruise ship. Grant turned to her and asked, “Can I be honest for a

second?” Demi nodded and Grant followed with, “I don’t know how the hell

we’re getting out of this one.”

Followed by a headshake and a laugh. To which she’d said, “My friend, it can

always be worse.”

Did this count as worse?

Because it de nitely inched toward that. She heard

Matthews’s voice welcome the two into engineering before the doors shut,

leaving only Demi and Sadler again. “What do you want?” she asked. Clean and simple. “Our goal is the same: get to the Lumersian well. Now, we have a very simple

choice. That WM ship oating next to us?

We’ve been wanting to get our hands

on their drive for months. Their surgical strikes are all based on that engine. We

need to get that back to Cluster space. By my estimates, it’s a three- or four-week

journey using that propulsion. About half that to get into communications

range.” He thumbed toward engineering. “I think the remaining crew should leave in that craft while I x this ship with Neera.” Sadler softened for a moment

with a chuckle. “We’d talk a lot about math. He loves that.”

Sadler showed he understood one of the underlying facts about GCF

starships—even older ones like the Horizon basically ran themselves if they just

had to go from point A to point B. Autopilot, continuous self-diagnostics, and

balanced power systems all operated smoothly as long as someone watched over

the whole thing for emergencies and instructions. This was no longer a discussion. Sadler turned it into a hostage negotiation,

with his demands being the ship and Neera. “No.” Demi shook her head right

away. “I’m not leaving Neera.”

“All right. Fair enough. You and Neera remain. The rest go.”

Sadler had his teleportation tech and he had knowledge to x the engine,

both of which he weaponized to take the Horizon by quiet force. Demi took this

sliver of a moment to reach behind her, and her ngers just wrapped around the

pistol’s grip when Sadler spoke up. “I wouldn’t do that. At least”—he tapped the

module in his hand, and its holographic display switched—“not until you

consider this.”

Instead of power metrics, the silhouettes of six gures showed— ve human

and one distinctly not. And above those gures, the words Targets Locked hovered. “I’ll be honest with you, Captain. This thing can only teleport one person at

a time. I’ve calibrated it to the exact biometrics of everyone on this ship, but it

can only do so much. When you lock onto multiples like this, it does a

calculation by proximity. You’d be rst. Then whoever’s standing closest to the

door. And so on. One by one, teleporting a hundred feet or so that way,” he said,

pointing outward. “You can try the cu now if you want, but it won’t help you

much if the destination is somewhere in space.”

Despite that, Demi still pulled the pistol out and aimed it squarely at Sadler’s

head, its power cell coming to life with a low hum. “You’re blu ng. You need

us.”

“No, I need Neera. And I’ll use you to establish communications with the

Lumersians. The others need to go. Either they leave on the other ship—and

deliver that WM tech—or they get sent out into space.” Sadler angled the module, his thumb hovering over a ashing green button on its top side. “Your

call.”

Demi considered her options. The photonic engine, the synth generator,

both needed time. In the Horizon’s hangar bay, Sadler’s light freighter. The WM

craft oated, connected via docking tube and waited to be taken. Beyond that, a

photonic convergence point, part of the way to the gravity well. “I said it before, we want the same thing. This conflict between us, all these

threats?

That’s on you. So,” he said, “are we working together or are people

dying?”

Demi did not want to let him win. Part of her refused. After everything they’d

been through, to have the Horizon and her crew pulled into Sadler’s purpose. It really pissed her o .

But it came down to the crew. It always did. She’d lost too many. “We all have choices to make,” Demi nally said. “Unless the engine is

repaired, none of it really matters. Now, those people are confused, hurt,

mourning. Aurora also knows the engine too. Here is my o er to you—we give

them some time to grieve while they assist in engine repairs. I won’t say a thing

to anyone. To protect them.”

“You’re not in a position to bargain.” Sadler looked back at the doors to

engineering. “But I’m not evil. I’m not malicious. Those are reasonable asks. If

anything happens, if anyone slips, they go into space. No second chances. It’s

really easy to make things look like an accident. And when the engine is ready,

your time is over, and they get o this ship. Either they set o or I take care of

them myself. You understand?”

Time. She’d bought them time. To repair the engine. To nd a way around

this. And if possible, repair any fractures among the crew while they mourned

the dead. That last part was just for her. “Agreed.” Demi’s thumb icked the side power switch on the pistol, and its

hum evaporated into nothing. “I appreciate you not killing me, Lieutenant.”

Demi took one step back, and whether intentional or not, Sadler mirrored

the action. “Likewise. Now,” he said, “shall we go x the engine?

Clock’s

ticking.”

They worked as a team to sweep through the Horizon for bodies before bringing

them down to the med bay, where the back wall panel slid open for an

emergency morgue. Later, Demi planned to lead a proper send-o for each of

them. “Ali always thought she would die in the well. Even when we were just

sitting in Cluster space,” Demi said, arms folded in front of the morgue. “She

didn’t leave speci cs. But she wouldn’t want to go back. We will leave her here,

on the edge of Cluster space. And far from the well.”

Hikaru’s last will recorded his desire to use the standard co n launched into

space—appropriate for a lifelong pilot like him. Diaz hadn’t lled that out,

leaving him with that same standard plan. Karl requested cremation, with his

remains brought to his son in the colonies. Macek, though, asked for something unique: to be cremated and blended

with photonic energy and left in space. Demi wasn’t sure if it was even feasible,

but Neera insisted he could make it work. “I will make it work,” he said, and

then described how he would spend his o -hours looking for a smaller

containment unit that could double as an urn. As for Lynn, Demi wasn’t sure. There was no body, but the hurt ran deep

and refused to let go. They’d responded to many di erent catastrophes in the

well, but “beloved turncoat” wasn’t one of them. Her mind shifted so many times in the past hours, and while she still felt the

weight of those deaths—most of those caused by loyalty of all things—she still

had pressing matters to attend to. Matthews didn’t participate in the sweep for dead crew members. He

probably wanted to, but given his injury, he stayed in the med bay for di erent

reasons. Demi found him down there still, post-injury IV to help with blood

loss. She brought him something else, though. “I thought you could use this,” she

said, carrying a tray from the cafeteria. He set it on his lap and stared at the

chicken club sandwich made from a combination of synthetically generated

meat and stored produce. “I imagine your body is craving real food after getting

IV calories.”

Matthews tapped the bruise from his previous IV insertion. “Thanks for not

letting me starve to death while drugged.”

“It was never my intent to do you harm. You have incredibly bad timing.”

“Or incredibly good timing.” He stopped to take a huge bite out of the

sandwich. “Given the attack on Theta Seven. I could have died if things were

di erent.”

Despite his mouth being full, Demi understood every word he said. “That is

true.” Her shoulders rose in a steadying breath, and she decided to o er one new

piece of information for him. “Lynn knew. For what it’s worth. She knew the

attack was imminent. She convinced the WM to not destroy the entire station.”

Matthews set the sandwich down on the tray and glared at her. “That makes

it okay?

Is that enough for you to forgive her?

She could have warned our

security team. She could have done more.” Demi saw the truth in what he said,

but also the fallacy. Everyone could have done something di erent, something

more, an endless ripple e ect of which bad decision tipped into other bad

decisions. “If you’d let me do my job, we would have all gone to Theta Seven. Lynn would have been interrogated. Hopefully apprehended. She’d be alive. How many people died because of your decision?”

“The WM would have gotten the engine. How many civilians would have

died because of that?”

“You don’t know that,” he said in a louder voice. “Security ships arrived right

away.”

“Okay, then let’s play this out.” She stayed calm, steady against his rising

temper. “The WM ships arrive. Lynn has convinced them to back o .

They

want the engine. Security ships interfere. They ght back. This escalates and

then they destroy Theta Seven to get the Horizon.” She gave him a half shrug

and said, “Just as plausible.”

“You’re saying you did the right thing?” His sco lled the med bay. “Things

turned out better this way?”

“I did the right thing for the Lumersians.” Saying their name grounded her

resolve. In the end, it was what mattered. “That’s the only part I know to be

true. Everything else?

It’s theoretical. It’s philosophical. It doesn’t change

anything.”

“I’m—” He stopped himself. “I really think you deserve every single bit of my

rage right now. But I am going to not do it. Because there are bigger things than

us yelling at each other. So we’re at a stalemate then.”

“Yes we are.” Demi pointed at the tray in his lap. “Even though I brought you

a sandwich.”

That caught Matthews o guard enough to break his momentum. He

paused, rubbing his face and blowing air into his palms, a noise that evolved into

a low, quick laugh. “You know what?

You drugged me. You stole this ship. You

will face consequences for that.” His hands swept down, and he looked directly

at her. “But there’s one thing I need to own. In that meeting with Krishna and

the war council… I brought up the photonic being strategically. It was over the

line, but that was on purpose. This ship is important. Rattling you could have

in uenced their decision. It’s not something I personally believe.”

The photonic being. Many, many responses ew through Demi’s mind. But within all the chaos of

recent days, one thing that lurked, a quick, almost incidental singular moment

that centered her. Even now, it remained the thing she held on to. Chuck spoke. Only once, but Chuck spoke. Hearing that phrase. Hearing Chuck’s voice. It was days ago, and yet

everything changed since then. How it happened, why it happened, they didn’t

have the time or resources to solve it, but it had to tie into the engine, photonic

jumps, and everything at play. She understood that solving that mystery wasn’t a priority, given Sadler’s

control over the ship and crew. But nding a way through that, maybe Chuck

would be the prize at the end. She sure could use one. Demi watched as the med bay stations continued their quiet, steady

monitoring. Matthews stayed focused on her but kept eating. Perhaps if she’d

brought chips as well, he’d be more amenable. “There’s a reason I came here. Besides the sandwich.” As if on cue, Matthews

picked it up and took a bite. “Surviving in that gravity well, I learned the most

important thing in uncontrolled situations is adaptability. I am adapting to

circumstances.” With a sword above all their necks, she needed to tread carefully. Neera’s earnestness would put him at risk if she spoke to him. Tanav didn’t have

the military discipline. Aurora and Casey carried a bitterness that made them

vulnerable. “I need your help.”

Matthews swallowed his bite and eyed her up and down. Though they’d had

their share of stando s, this felt a little di erent. “I have,” he started slowly,

“adapted every day of my life. It’s how we work in the colonies. Instability is a

terrible way to live. But it’s the only way I know. Adaptability through chaos

makes me good at my job. We’re in something much deeper than any animosity

between us. I get that. That does not absolve you of anything. What do you

need?”

“I can’t say.” His face tightened at that: lips thinning, eyes narrowing, jaw

tensing. Despite their rocky relationship, he’d clearly seen enough to know the

seriousness of the unspoken. “Is this,” he said slowly, “regarding my suspicions earlier?”

Was Sadler monitoring things?

She wouldn’t put it past him—it made

strategic sense and he’d had access to everything since he’d boarded. Her promise

to him was one thing; how he planned to track that, exact punishment if

necessary, she wasn’t sure. She needed to stay within boundaries here. Demi dipped her head in a subtle nod. “I see,” Matthews said. “Right now, I am asking you to put our recent di erences aside, use your

instincts, watch closely, and follow my lead.”

Seconds ticked away as Matthews absorbed the meaning of this. “Is there a

timeline?”

“In a way.” Demi considered all the ways to strategically speak. Sadler marked

the nish line. Sadler also had the ability to change the nish line—and who

survived long enough to make it. “Like I said, use your instincts and follow my

lead.”

So many parts of Matthews’s face stayed static at this, but the glint in his eye

changed. “I don’t forgive you. And I don’t think you were right at Theta Seven. You should know that,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “But I will work with you. Because I would rather us get through this pissed o at each other than not

get through it at all.”

“All right. We understand each other.” Demi took a half step to leave, but

stopped to address the nal unresolved matter between them. “Commander,

one last thing,” she said with arms crossed. “I still don’t know what your interest

in the Horizon is.”

“Yeah, that.” A thoughtful look arrived as his eyes turned up. “Given

everything, I’d rather not say just yet,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m hungry.”

That was as good as it was going to get. For now, Demi would take any

victory that came her way. “Enjoy your sandwich. There’s more in the mess

hall.”

CHAPTER 31

TANAV

With this latest batch of cookies, Tanav took a test bite and realized that Lynn

was still right. Those extra ve minutes worked wonders. That thought orbited his mind as he brought the tray up to Demi’s quarters. Despite the revelation that she was spying for the WM, Lynn’s voice ltered into

each of his thoughts. Even now—especially now, a day after the most recent

message from the Lumersians. Because that stranded mystery craft stuck was sent by his parents. His parents

might even be on it. They would do something like that for headlines like Moguls

Search for Their Lost Musician Son on Experimental Spacecraft. And Lynn would have

laughed hard at that. His return wouldn’t have been about publicity. It would show his parents,

his extended family, his relatives, everyone who constantly doubted and mocked

his life choices, that all of this meant something. The connections between

people, the art of communication, they would lead him to the Crystal Dreams. Which put him on a collision course with Demi on the Horizon. It would be the

reason he survived and got home. He wondered about Thaddea, given that several years had passed since their

hallway argument. Knowing her, there were equal chances that she’d want to

give things another chance or that she’d moved on, happily and healthily. Either way, she’d appreciate his journey. She might have even liked Lynn. What might have happened if they’d met?

Now he’d never know. One day after the massacre by the WM, they held a ceremony in the docking

bay to honor their fallen. And now, one day after those ceremonies, they staged

something smaller, more private, and not everyone showed up. Plus, there was no body. It was tting, though. Tanav set the tray of cookies on Demi’s small, empty

dining table. Lynn wouldn’t want décor or long speeches, just a good

soundtrack. The doors opened and everyone turned to see Aurora. “I don’t know how to

feel,” she said as she stepped in. “Lynn put us in danger. You”—she pointed at

Demi—“put us in danger. Everything complicates everything. I just want to help

my family. But I can’t right now.” Tanav o ered her a cookie, which she took

with both hands and held tight. “So I’m here instead. Because I gured I would

regret it more if I didn’t come. Casey felt otherwise.”

Neera stood up from the small corner station that held Chuck’s containment

unit and its translation matrix. At his feet, Indy got up as well, giving a big

stretch while looking at him the entire time. “You’re allowed to take a break,”

Tanav said, bringing over a cookie for him and a bone-shaped one for the dog. “Ample time has not existed to process yesterday’s message from the

Lumersians,” Neera said. “Eleven days is Sadler’s estimate for getting the engine

back online. If the Lumersians are transmitting a new message at each

convergence point, a full understanding of each one should be established before

moving forward.” Neera gave Indy a pet, and his textured black eyes squinted

thoughtfully. “Macek would have been a great support during this time.”

The translation matrix beeped, prompting Neera to keep working. And,

Tanav supposed, Sadler might call them for engineering support. Or Casey

might have a change of heart. Matthews declined to come, a polite “I don’t share

enough history with her to warrant this” from him. Tanav wasn’t sure he could forgive Lynn, and he hadn’t felt ready to ask

anyone else. They’d all avoided the topic, talking more about the wake’s logistics

than the actual person. Though the fact that they were all here, even with

cookies, probably meant enough. Tanav took a cookie and stepped forward to face the large clear dome

window, unsure of what he wanted to nd there. Demi said all the bodies oated away some time ago, the ceaseless movement of an object drifting through the

vacuum of space. Did he want to see her again, even in that horri c condition?

Or was the absolute emptiness more comforting?

He didn’t know. Maybe he’d never know. “I’ll go rst.” Demi inhaled, a deep breath that ultimately produced no

words. Instead, she stood in the middle of the room, petting the dog, who

chomped the nal bits of the cookie by her side. “Goddamn it, Lynn. I don’t

know. You were the best. You were the worst. You were going to leave us for

them. But you didn’t want to hurt us.” Demi squeezed her eyes shut as she

spoke, and a waver snuck into her voice. “You challenged me. And while there’s

merit to those ideas, I can’t fully forgive you for putting us in this situation. For

selling us out. But I can recognize that through each of those steps, you viewed

us as your friends. You wanted to keep us safe. You tried to shield us, to stand in

front of us. I understand that. God, I get that.” Demi’s quiet laugh grew

infectious, and everyone joined in, even Aurora. “We might all be dead without

Lynn. So, am I mad?

Yes, Lynn, I am fucking mad at you.” Tanav had never seen

Demi cry and had rarely seen her furious. She didn’t give into tears, but her voice

was laced with anger, the kind that could only be born out of love. “But I also

love you and miss you, and you did not deserve to die that way.”

Tanav held up a chocolate chip cookie, one that was baked exactly to her

speci cations. He took one bite, then another, then another, chewing the whole

thing as he remembered her: her voice, her scent, her laugh, her list of bands that

she wanted him to hear, all of the times she went o about how Jenny Lewis

wrote the best lyrics. His palm attened against the cold glass, and his weight leaned into it. Or rather, that structure propped him up in this moment. “Demi,” Neera said, a hesitant waver in his voice. “There is something urgent

from the translation matrix despite the possibly inappropriate timing.”

“That’s the way it goes with us. You see,” she said, “Lynn would appreciate

‘possibly inappropriate timing.’ Wouldn’t she?”

The beeps from Neera’s tablet stopped as he paused and looked up. His

massive shoulders somehow seemed as fragile now as a human child’s, and his

voice took on the most unfamiliar tone. “She would.”

Two short words from Neera. With e ort. They all nodded at Neera, who pulled up the text. The bulk of it was now

complete, and as Tanav read the words, he considered the opportunities. So many opportunities presented themselves in a short paragraph. It wasn’t just a Lexin Industries ship. His parents were indeed on board. And

as for the Lumersians?

They con rmed an energy tether between Tanav’s

universe and the gravity well. Tanav didn’t understand the science behind it. All he needed to know was

that a path home really existed. His fervent hope had shifted from mere

conjecture to something very, very real. Tanav looked at the vastness of space, strangely calm at how this night

dedicated to Lynn t together with what might have been. Now he would move

forward without her. But if his entire purpose for going home was to show his

parents who he had become, then Lynn was absolutely part of that. CHAPTER 32

DEMI

Ten days had passed since the WM’s attempt on the Horizon. Ten days since

Lynn was teleported out into space. Ten days since Sadler held the Horizon hostage for whatever Oversight’s end

goal was. She’d negotiated space for the crew to adapt, to mourn. And time for herself

to gure out a strategy. Hopefully time for Matthews to gain some insight into

the situation. And now she had to make a choice. Demi wasn’t sure how Aurora and Casey would react—chances are, they’d be

happy to get home. And even without Sadler, it was a much safer bet than

staying here; there was a certain relief in severing them from the growing

uncertainty of what lay ahead for the Horizon. They didn’t want to be here in

the rst place, and while it took the long way around, ultimately Demi delivered. But Tanav, he’d be unhappy with this. Possibly furious. He was already fragile

without Lynn, and this would push him further. He’d likely see this decision as

an act of cruelty, and there was a good chance he may never discover what really

played out. Either they set off or I take care of them myself. Neera had wondered if the Lumersian transmissions were recordings planted

at each convergence point, like messages waiting to be played. Demi now knew

that they were not. Another one has arrived about two hours ago. The translation matrix improved, as it processed without any additional tweaking—

either that, or it grew a sense of humor and wanted to scare the hell out of her. Because as bad as things had been, they were about to get much worse. Demi squinted at the text output from the translation, reading it for the

fourth or fth time:

Our latest calculations confirmed suspicions that the well is expanding. This energy

is leaking into convergence points within physical space. The well’s expansion also

increases its photonic density to create a gravimetric effect on matter to create

compression on an atomic level. If this expansion is not stopped, this implosion will

encapsulate this universe and others intersecting our dimension. The immediate

return of 910047 is required

She stared at the text on the translation matrix display. She could have output it to engineering for Neera to see. Or she could have

called him for a discussion. She weighed these, considering the ways that Sadler

might respond to it, or how this information might impact decisions—by her,

by Sadler, by Matthews. The well was a threat to them. To the Cluster. To everything beyond the

Cluster, to Tanav’s universe and the Regent Empire in Neera’s, and everything

else—all of physical existence bled into implosion, courtesy of photonic science

gone wrong. Grant would have known how to handle this information, whether to parse it

out or hold it for now—and if he thought Demi’s instincts were wrong, he’d

provide a very detailed explanation why. Without that sounding board to

brainstorm, she sat on this catastrophe with only her thoughts and Indy’s

background snoring. Di erent paths played out, but the most important thing

came down to this:

She needed to get to the Lumersians. And before she committed Chuck’s

spark to the gravity well, she needed an explanation from them on how Chuck’s

true voice had come back. It still had only been that lone time, a miraculous several seconds of his voice

for her to hear. Between repairs, Lynn, Sadler, and so many possibilities and

choices, she’d kept it to herself. She told herself it was to keep Neera on task, to give Tanav space to mourn, to

respect how Aurora and Casey felt, given how everything unraveled. Yet during

those quiet moments, when she sat facing the purple dot, she let herself wonder

if he might be in there, if there might be some possible way between the

Lumersian existence and the photonic dimension to forge a way back. If there wasn’t, if the Lumersians simply used his spark to seal the well and

stop its expansion—the whole “saving all of existence” bit—then that was that. But until they gave her a de nitive answer, she kept a tiny bit of unbottled hope,

as dim and present as Chuck’s spark. For now, there were consequences to face. The console on her desk chimed as she activated a shipwide address. “Attention, crew,” she said, “with the photonic engine repairs nearing

completion, we need to discuss upcoming possibilities.”

Demi continued, an intentional steadiness in her voice. “We’ll assemble in

one hour at engineering. Kim out.”

One hour. Within that span, Demi gave herself half of it to stop strategizing,

stop thinking, stop captaining. She kicked o her boots and felt the chair

beneath her, like if she just let go a little bit, she might actually sink away into it. She had priorities—both within the ship and outside of it. But for a sliver in

time, she wanted to simply be. An hour later, Demi stood in front of the photonic engine and the synth

generator, hands clasped behind her and spine straight. Though she’d often felt

like her life would inevitably lead her back to the well, she realized now that such

fatalism wasn’t true. Ali’s fears weren’t true either. They had a choice. She had a

choice with all of this, but the one area that she absolutely could not escape or

dress up or ignore was how everyone else got here. In the past ten days, Demi watched Sadler closely. But as far as she could see,

he’d stayed strictly on technical duties, delegating orders and instructions. Aurora knuckled down, working task by task, scan by scan. As gradual progress

pushed the engine to a state of readiness, her defense lowered in kind. Whether the passage of time or the growing inevitability of something ending, Aurora

nally cracked one night after a shift and said, “It’s going to be good to get back

to the farm.”

“I’d like to see it someday,” Demi had replied, ready to take what little wins

arrived. This counted as one. Especially because Casey essentially worked by

herself in the science lab, talking with Neera or Aurora but never to Demi. Matthews assisted as well, his hands-on repair experience proving helpful at

areas damaged during the WM invasion. Demi kept her distance from him, a

quiet understanding that they both watched but never disclosed things. Neera stayed the most quiet. He worked, and though Demi tried to nd a

way through his shell, she knew that his sense of pack had shattered. Death and

betrayal created shock waves, and whenever she even asked about repair progress,

he simply said, “Sadler would know the answer to that question.”

Tanav o ered to help, but his lack of technical skills meant he spent most of

his time in the mess hall attempting meals for the small crew. Perhaps the

isolation gave him the space to grieve; when he spoke, he mostly talked about

Lynn, each word seeming to sink in the reality of her loss and the memory of her

life. As for Chuck, he remained silent. Because of that, Demi stayed on mission. None of the crew realized what would happen when time ran out. And Demi

steeled herself for their reactions, particularly Tanav. Now she looked at them, including Sadler, who had the teleportation control

module attached to his belt. Was it active?

She couldn’t see if its status lights

glowed under his palm. “Thank you for coming,” Demi said, a conscious channeling of Grant Singh

over the tone and cadence of her words. “We’ve all worked hard in recent days to

get the engine and the generator back online. They’re nearly operational. Lieutenant Sadler projects that it’ll be one more day before we can proceed with

a photonic jump. “Because of that, I’ve had to make some hard decisions about next steps. My

responsibility has always been to this crew—you. To that end, here are the facts:

the Horizon needs to make the journey to Lumersian space. Immediately. Because”—she took in a breath and looked at Sadler—“I’ve received a new transmission from them, just a few hours ago.” Sadler narrowed his eyes at this. “The gravity well has not only returned. It is expanding. Expanding at an

alarming rate, and the Lumersians believe that if it is not contained soon, it may

be impossible to do so.”

“What does that expansion lead to?” Matthews said, his eyes alert, clear

tension in his face. “Given enough time?

The well will encompass all physical space. And because

photonic space is a gateway to other universes, it may leak there as well. All of

physical space, across all physical realities, stuck within this well until the

gravitational forces cause implosion.” Demi nodded to Neera and Tanav. “Just

like the ships we saw years ago.”

Everything shifted in Tanav, his eyes sharpening. “We’d better hurry.”

“I’ve thought this through.” Demi paused to give herself a fraction of a

second to consider what she was about to commit to. Sadler held all the cards,

and Demi had to accept that. He may have wanted people o the ship to reduce

threats, but that did o er something in return. Without them, Demi would have fewer people at risk. “We have dual responsibilities here. The goal is to get to the Lumersians and

repair the ssure between dimensions. All of reality is at stake.” Demi looked up

at the towering cylinder that made up the photonic engine. “No pressure,

right?” This got a reaction from the group, and even Casey cracked a smile. “At

the same time, we have the WM ship. It has their secret FTL engine. This is

critical for Cluster R&D teams to examine. By understanding its capabilities, it

can save lives. It can end the war faster. “There’s only so many of us to do the work. And to be honest, we don’t

totally know what’s at the well. It might be more volatile than before. There are

no guarantees of coming back.” Demi paused for a moment, thinking back to

her epiphany about choice. She could have gone back to the Cluster. She didn’t have to do this. Sadler

gave her a way out. The gravity well didn’t pull her back. She forged a path herself. “To accomplish this, we’ll split up into two teams. Tanav, Aurora, Casey, and

Commander Matthews will take the WM ship back to Cluster space. The estimate is that you’ll be within communications range in one to two weeks. Neera will stay on board with Sadler to assist with nal engineering issues. And I

will stay to lead discussions with the Lumersians.” She met Matthews’s eyes for

just a second with a knowing look. Tanav, however, wasn’t going to go so cleanly. “Demi…” he started, before

clearing his throat. “Captain. The Lumersians well may be my chance to go

home. I’d like to stay.”

Demi shook her head, thinking through the di erent excuses she’d prepared

in advance. “Matthews has a severe leg injury. The WM ship has a small medical

bay with a diagnostic scanner and treatment systems. He’ll need help to get

through the journey. It’s too important to leave to chance.” Tanav shot her a

look that she’d never seen, despite so many years together—a sheer disbelief

written through lines and wrinkles across his face. “I’m sorry, Tanav.”

“Wait. No… I—”

“She’s right,” Matthews jumped in, cutting Tanav o .

“Getting that ship to

Cluster scientists is an immediate priority. I’m going to need all of you.”

“He doesn’t need me to y a ship!

And he’s not going to take medical advice

from me.”

“I’ve examined the ight systems,” Matthews said. “I’m gonna need all of

you. It’s a complicated hardware with advanced stations. Every set of hands

counts. Like the captain said, this will save lives.”

Demi told herself to treat Tanav’s ire as white noise. She tried, at least. But

Tanav recognized the weaknesses in her defenses. A single look told her that he’d

caught that. It didn’t matter. She was protecting them from the vacuum of space. Only

one solution existed. “Tanav, you’re going,” she said with cold precision. “Captain’s orders.”

Her tone shocked everyone. Neera even took a step back. He must have heard

far worse during his time with the Regent Empire, but in his years with Demi

and informal approach, such militariness must have seemed beyond foreign. Except Tanav didn’t back down. He may have seen right through it. “I told

you before—I’m not an o cer.”

“This is bullshit,” Casey said. “He’s not even from here. You’re taking away

the thing he’s talked about for years, for what?

To be a set of hands on an

experimental ship?”

“If you close the well, then that might seal o my way home,” Tanav said. “My parents’ ship is there. There’s a path. They said that in the transmission.”

“I need you to listen to me right now.” She’d mentally prepared for this

protest. Of course he’d want to stay. She’d made a promise. Her focus shifted. She stared at Sadler as he stood quietly, hands at his side and a thin line across his

lips, and new ideas popped into her head. They were all here. Could they take

him down?

Neera would know how to x the nal stages of the engine and the

generator. She’d considered as such when he slept, but given possible security

traps with his teleportation device, it felt too risky. But right here?

Except… who knew what else Sadler was capable of?

Oversight agents were

black ops for a reason. It wasn’t like they’d go through all the secrecy and

advanced tech to be unprepared. No, she had to stick to the script. “There is nothing else I can do. You must go.”

“Demi—”

“That’s it, Counselor Lexin.” She had to cut him o before this spiraled out of

control, before Sadler sensed any doubt in her. “This isn’t up for debate. Lieutenant Sadler, let’s go over the remaining checklist for the engine. Everyone

else, prepare for departure tomorrow. Dismissed.”

Demi turned before anyone could speak, then moved over to the large star

chart on the far wall. She pretended to be focused on map details—their current

location, distance from Cluster communication range, known location of other

convergence points. But in reality, she tracked the crew’s reactions from her peripheral vision. Neera immediately went back to work. Aurora stepped forward, and Demi

prepared herself when she broke o after Neera. But Tanav hesitated— rst

watching Demi cross the room, then opening his mouth to say something. It

never came out, though, and after several seconds, Casey joined them with

another gripe about how “this is bullshit.”

Then Matthews hobbled behind him. “Let me tell you something, pop star,”

he said as they left. “I’m not such bad company.” As they moved, Matthews

turned and met her gaze, just long enough to show he understood. Sadler came up alongside Demi. “Sounds like everyone’s on board,” he said. Demi let herself have a small sigh, one step closer to whatever fate awaited her. CHAPTER 33

NEERA

Anticipation. Or anxiety. Weren’t they the same thing?

It felt that way as Neera

stood next to Demi. While Sadler remained in engineering to work on the nal

test of the synth generator, the time had come for the rest of the crew to depart. Neera muted his tablet’s alerts, setting a break of eight minutes to say farewell. He got to the observation lounge, where Tanav stayed quiet. Strangely, Demi

hadn’t tried to smooth things over. Aurora seemed excited to nally leave, and

Casey softened in this nal moment, possibly with the realization that Demi and

Neera may not return from the well. In engineering, Neera and Aurora had their own moment of quiet too. Sadler

assigned them to spend the last few days ne-tuning the engine while he’d

worked exclusively on the synth generator’s calibrations. And that morning,

she’d paused one set of nal checks to remember Macek:

“He was always so happy to be scanning things, huh?” she’d asked. Then she

laughed, which prompted his laughter in response. Her observation was correct,

and those qualities made him an exceptional engineer. That loss made him

wonder how much responsibility he bore over his death, over everyone’s death,

as if quantifying it could precisely de ne how much guilt he should feel. “This is

some scary shit, isn’t it?”

For that, he actually didn’t reply, too focused on determining whether the

question was a joke or a confession. It did, though, set o a chain reaction of

thoughts, examining the di erent choices that ultimately led here. What could they have changed?

Did Neera make a mistake by not saying

anything after Theta Seven?

They had chances to go back, to abandon this plan,

or at least slow down and evaluate things. Yet he had agreed to work with

urgency above all else instead of saying something. It was too late now. They were here, perhaps past the point of no return. He didn’t answer Aurora, and perhaps she didn’t seek one. Instead, she

hugged him. “You visit me at the farm, okay?”

And Demi, she’d stopped him in the hallway too right before this moment. “I’m sorry we’re here together. But I’m very grateful it’s you by my side.”

Now they stood just outside the docking tube. Beyond the massive doors lay

the airlock section, green status lights showing a secure connection with the

Withdrawal Movement ship. Not that long ago, the docking bay serviced the

ship’s crew to depart for Base Theta Seven. That was when and where Ayenew died. Finally, Demi spoke. “Commander Matthews. I know we’ve butted heads a little since you’ve

arrived. I’d say my head still hurts a bit from it.” Matthews chuckled at this, then

Tanav’s head tilted, and without a word, Tanav nally let the hint of a smile

through. That very reaction seemed enough to pull Demi forward into a

di erent, lighter place. “We clearly have di erences of opinion about many

things. But you have put yourself in danger for all of us, and for that, I am

indebted. And grateful.”

“We committed to trusting each other,” Matthews said, hand snapping up in

a salute. “I’m certain we’ll both ful ll our ends of the bargain.”

“I hope you’re right,” Demi said. She turned to Casey. “Our makeshift

doctor. Casey, you don’t have to tell me again that biology is di erent from

medicine. You got us through it. And Aurora—”

Aurora interrupted her with one hand up. Then the other came up, holding

several glowing hot peppers. “Last ones in this corner of the universe. If you ever

want to try them,” she said. “Ramen night won’t be the same without you,” Demi said as she took them. “I might put them to good use. Might.” She paused, then turned to Tanav. “Tanav…”

He shook his head, causing Demi to pause. “You don’t have to say anything,”

he said before straightening up. “We’re good.”

“We are?” Demi’s response was laced with surprise. “We are. There are bigger things at stake here.” He put his arms on Demi’s

shoulders, his brown eyes locked on hers. “We’ll see each other again. Just be

careful.”

Demi failed to react, and knowing her, she’d probably prepared for every

other possible statement from Tanav except this one. “I’m going to be with two

engineers. You can’t get more careful than that,” she nally said. “There are no

guarantees about how this will play out. But if we are successful, I’ll nd out

whatever I can about getting you home.”

Matthews tapped Tanav on the shoulder and motioned to the docking tube

door. Some nal words passed between Tanav and Demi, but Neera’s attention

changed as his tablet beeped, its eight-minute time-out over. He skimmed

through the di erent status noti cations—the synth containment issue still

existed, but he knew this already. Sadler had instructed him to focus on the main

engine, and despite Neera’s instincts to review the data, he complied with Sadler,

saying he’d apply the x right before launch. That noti cation was anticipated. Everything else…

Strange. Pre-jump sequences had started. But why?

They still had another few cycles

of calibrations to nish, and it wasn’t like Sadler to skip necessary steps. His

engineering approach mirrored Neera’s in its methodical nature. Despite the ongoing farewell, Neera decided to speak up. “This data is

unexpected,” he said quickly. “An investigation is necessary.”

Just like that, Demi snapped back into being herself. “Okay, sentimentality is

over. Science awaits.” The docking bay doors slid open, and without another

word, the crew started down. The doors closed after the last of them entered,

leaving only pressurized alloy in front of Demi and Neera. “They’re o ,” Demi

said, a rare solemnity in her voice. “Part of me really can’t believe we’re going

back there. Can you?”

“I cannot judge that until we determine the status of the engine,” Neera said. “Is this a big problem?”

“Two issues are showing up on the status noti cations. Synth containment

stability is the rst. Several other functions appear to be powering up, which is

unexpected for a dry run.” Neera turned to the comm link in his shoulder. “Transmission: Neera to Sadler.”

No response came. They waited as the grinding mechanisms of the Horizon’s

docking tube collapsed into its full stowed position. From the observation

lounge’s large windows, the WM ship separated and tilted before its propulsion

system came to life, four bright white circles igniting to push the ship away. “Transmission,” Neera said again. “Neera to Sadler.” Once again, no response

arrived, and Neera began tapping through his tablet for updates. “We better get to engineering,” Demi said, setting Aurora’s glowing peppers

on the nearest table. “I have my suspicions about what’s happening.”

“Do you think perhaps Sadler is injured?” Neera asked, cycling through the

status charts one more time. The good news was that the engine’s metrics looked

on target; though that still didn’t explain why things powered up. “I’ll explain later,” Demi said as she shook her head. “Transmission: Kim to

Sadler.” She pushed the pace despite his taller body and longer stride. “I knew it. I shouldn’t have waited.”

Waited for what?

“Demi,” Neera said, and though this circumstance required clear lines of

communication, the natural verbose impulses failed to consolidate his racing

thoughts. “Demi,” he said again, trying to sum up his confusion and questions. “You deserve a full explanation,” she said. “But we need to focus rst.” They

stepped out into the long hallway, Demi moving with a bold intention, her body

tilting as if she couldn’t contain it. Except halfway through, she stopped abruptly. Demi took an open palm and

tapped it against the air, a shimmer of light crackling upon impact. Neera did

the same, his larger hand hitting against the same vertical plane. It pulsed back on him with a surprising weight, like two magnets repelling

each other. The same crackle of light appeared, and Neera tried it again. A force eld. Blocking their way to the elevator. “What is this?” Demi asked under her breath. “Transmission,” she said. “Kim

to Sadler. What the hell are you doing?”

Neera pulled out a scanner and pointed it up to the ceiling. The scanner’s

display lit up with detailed numbers showing power being funneled to the

emergency security eld generator. “The ESF generator has been activated by

someone and—”

“By someone—you mean Sadler.” Demi’s words now came with a clear

venom. “Short version: your friend’s been holding us hostage. Ever since the

WM attack.”

Hostage?

“I am not…” Neera said, and though he continued staring at the scanner’s

display, his mind raced through all the times he’d discussed the engine, the

Horizon, his friendship with Sadler. “I am not understanding the meaning of

this.”

What was happening?

Had Neera led them to all of this?

Was he the weak link?

“He o ered a deal. To keep everyone safe. I took it. And now he doesn’t have

them”—she thumbed back at the observation lounge—“to worry about. I know

this: he wants the engine online. I know his teleportation tech is based on that. It’s all driven by a black ops group called Oversight.” Demi glanced at Neera’s

scanner before smacking the force eld again. “How do we override those?”

“I am…” Neera started, and though his pack instincts should have kicked in,

his thoughts centered on all the ways weak links were handled in his previous

life. “Neera. Look at me. Focus. This is not the Regent Empire. This is not your

fault. Sadler was going to nd a way to the engine one way or another. Either

through you or me or anyone else on this crew. What we need to do right now,”

Demi said, the force of her words sounding as if they could puncture the barrier

in front of them, “is nd a way through this. Understood?”

Neera had trusted Sadler. And hadn’t Sadler been honest?

His data was

correct. His engineering theories were correct. He solved the decay issue, he got

the engine to go. Suddenly, Neera grasped the very human behavior that he simply hadn’t seen

coming. In his old life, it was obvious when situations were crafted with

disingenuous purposes. In the well, their crew worked with overwhelming honesty, sometimes emotions being too visible for calm discussion. And with

Lynn, their friendship remained true to the very end. But Sadler’s words did not match up with his actions, subverting all ow of

decisions and communication. This changed something in Neera’s mind,

branching o into new examinations previously impossible, like being able to see

a new color for the rst time. Neera understood so much more now, and yet he felt so much worse for it. The scanner’s display changed as he tapped on it, switching out from

generator power levels to hallway schematics, a ow of data showing him the

problem’s initial conditions. “Power conduits are owing through this entire

area. It is possible to deactivate a certain portion of them with the right access.”

“You gure that out. I’ll be pacing. Pacing helps me think.” With that, Demi

did exactly as she claimed, a forceful walk up and down the hallway with hands

on hips. Neera didn’t have to see her to know what expression she would have

had on her face. Sadler locked all of the direct power controls. Which meant that Neera would

need to get creative to shut down this barrier. He started to examine ways to

bypass power maintenance access methods when, beyond the force eld, the

elevator chimed, followed by a familiar hydraulic whoosh. “Oh, I am going to—” Demi started. But she paused, squinting down the

hall, and Neera saw her face change: her mouth opened, her brow softened, and

something caused her to inhale sharply. Neera waited for his vision to adjust and come into focus. But he paused a

few extra seconds because what he saw didn’t make sense. Tanav turned the corner and stepped into view. Wearing a plain gray shirt

instead of his uniform, and with a cu around his wrist. And as he slowed in front of the force eld’s plane, he did the same thing

Neera and Demi did: he slapped the air, feeling out the vertical slice creating an

invisible barrier. “Demi,” he said breathlessly. “Something is very wrong. Sadler’s stolen

Chuck.”

CHAPTER 34

TANAV

That morning, Tanav considered storming through to Demi one last time. She

promised him. And she broke it. She should know that. He almost did it. Almost. Until he realized that it wouldn’t do any good. Because in the end,

she was military. And he was not. They both treaded toward the boundaries of that at times, but they never

fully crossed it. And it served them well. Demi’s training and experience got

them through everything. And Tanav’s background gave an outside perspective

when she needed it the most. This circumstance wasn’t about feelings or family. Demi looked at resources,

practicalities, life and death on many di erent fronts. She wouldn’t budge. Funny how he’d provided Demi with perspective so many times, and

thinking through this o ered the same to him. He was still mad, hurt, and

resentful for the sudden collapse. But he understood. And that led to a quiet

resignation—that he’d spend the next few weeks with awkward silences on the

WM ship. At least it was big enough to claim a spot to hide out, relax, maybe

even write a song or two. It’d been a long time since he’d done that. Lynn had, of course, suggested he try. He always said that he didn’t feel

inspired or didn’t have the time or something like that. But recent days had

taken away the very things that carried him forward: the thought of going home. The thought of bringing Lynn. Songwriting seemed to be the only way to consolidate those two things. He

even began assembling rough lyrics in his head to capture the limbo he felt. Then Matthews surprised him. “Meet me at the docking tube,” Matthews had said in his doorway. “0800

hours. By yourself.”

Curiosity and the desire to do something drove Tanav to obey. And when

Tanav got there, Matthews made a big show of contacting Demi and Sadler to

say they were going over to the WM ship for safety checks before the afternoon

ight. Matthews remained quiet as they walked, only the clink of his ri e-crutch

on the docking tube’s metal oor and hydraulic bursts as doors pressurized. Once they stepped on board, his demeanor changed, a brightness coming to

his eyes. “I think we’re clear,” he said. Matthews pulled out a scanner. “Yeah. No

active transmitters. It’s funny, this ship. All the records show it’s called the ‘Silver

Lining.’ I’ll take it at this stage.”

“I still haven’t gured out what that means,” Tanav said. “Other than it’s an

old song that Lynn liked.”

“It means that something good might come out of something bad.” That

made no sense to Tanav, but Lynn often said that his universe’s sayings didn’t

make sense either, so this was fair. “Whoever named it had a sense of humor

about the WM. But it works for us now. They can’t listen to us here.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” A legitimate question with too many plausible answers,

given the circumstances. Three deep lines formed on Matthews’s forehead as he squinted and leaned

forward. “Sadler,” he said quietly. Which was not what he expected. The

commander glanced around, then rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sadler’s ship

—we have to check it out before taking this ship back to Cluster space. Something stinks about him, and it’s not in the ventilation system. Kim and I

have come to a bit of an understanding.” He angled his look, as if he could see

through the docking bay doors. “Sadler’s watching her, so we’re being careful. I

don’t know what she knows. She doesn’t know what I know. We’ve had to keep

our distance.”

“If he’s the problem, then why not just take the ship by force?” Tanav asked. “We outnumber him.”

Matthews inhaled as he looked over the Silver Lining’s walls. “The GCF

needs the Horizon. They also need this ship. Sadler’s got some mystery tech. Not

to mention your light being’s in danger. And a gravity well expanding out of

control. I wish a good punch could x this, but it’s much more complicated

now. Let me ask you something, you really think Kim wants you o this ship?”

It was a good question. Demi’s orders had jolted him at rst, a betrayal of her

sense of loyalty. He’d justi ed it in his head as her military sensibilities overtaking

everything. And while that might be true, Matthews’s question gave him the

permission to push that just a little bit more. Because even with all that, she still would have tried to do something to nd a

way. The fact that he didn’t recognize that or question it…

That might have been Tanav’s own fear that she didn’t really care after

everything they’d been through. “It’s not like her,” he said. “When they talked at the engine, she was

controlling the discussion. She was thinking about next steps.”

“Sadler is making a play.” Matthews pointed beyond the docking tube. “What do you know about him?”

“He’s an engineer. He’s Neera’s friend,” Tanav said. “His experimental tech

saved us.”

“I’m deeply involved with wartime discussions. Strategy, resources, weapons. No one has ever brought up teleportation tech.” Matthews’s eyes narrowed. “Rumors of a black ops division have existed forever. And there’s always some

truth to rumors. The fact that he wants all of us o this ship?

That’s something. But you see, we have the advantage. We have you.”

“Me?”

“He’s watching Kim, he’s working with Neera and Sterling, he knows my

background. You, he treats you as just kind of there.” Matthews gave a quick

chuckle. “You’re not military. You’re not an engineer. You’re not a scientist or a

pilot. You’re not even on the o cial crew roster. You’re the pop star who

organizes noodle night.”

Several weeks ago, Matthews would have had said those things in a

demeaning way. Today, though, his tone wrapped each point with optimism. “Ramen night,” Tanav said. “There’s a di erence.”

Matthews dipped his head in acknowledgment. “There’s also a di erence

with you,” he said. “I spent the last few days reviewing all of Kim’s notes about

the crew. Your quantum signature. And that.” He pointed to Tanav’s

communicator clipped to his uniform. “They’re just footnotes in her debrief. She called it ‘an annoying technical hiccup.’ But we can do something with that. “GCF biometric sensors can’t detect you without the signal enhancer in your

comm. And since Sadler doesn’t see you as a threat, he’s not tracking you as

much as everyone else.” Matthews took on a grim, serious tone with his words. “You’re the only one who can break into his freighter undetected.”

Breaking into any standard GCF vessel meant overriding varying levels of

physical and electronic security. But Sadler’s ship came with additional layers, all

meticulously detailed by Matthews, who had apparently surveyed the

possibilities the day prior. The only path lay so outside of common sense that

Matthews swore that it wasn’t even documented in any maintenance manual. Two hours later, Tanav was in the Horizon’s docking bay in civilian clothes

while his uniform and its clipped comm stayed in his quarters, pinging away a

false location. He crawled under the light freighter, rst shu ing underneath the

landing skid on his back, then using whatever pressure and handholds he found

to slide himself along. “If one of these landing skids gives out, I’m going to be completely attened,”

Tanav said over the private comm in his ear. “Don’t think about it. Just look for the hatch. It’s hexagon-shaped, about

three feet in diameter. Center starboard underneath any carrier-class light

freighter,” Matthews said. “And don’t damage the RSAI. That’s our lifeline.”

Matthews pronounced the term as are sigh, his shorthand for the remote

secure access interface, some sort of military tech for hacking into systems. And

apparently, their best chance at doing something—as long as Tanav could squish

in under the ship. He angled as he could, the ashlight on his shoulder casting

shadows at all sorts of angles. “I don’t know which way starboard is,” Tanav said,

half to irk Matthews and half because it was true. Right on cue, Matthews sighed. “This isn’t a game.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Tanav thought he saw it—an elevated lip on the

otherwise at middle section of the freighter. He scooted over that way, his joints

aching in ways he’d never considered before. “ ‘The execution of all things,’ ” he

sang quietly to himself, the words coming out almost more as instinct than

anything else. “ ‘The execution of all things.’ ”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Tanav said, immediately pushing away thoughts of Lynn. “Just a

song. Okay, I’m here. Hexagon. About a meter in diameter. Now what?”

Matthews provided detailed steps to the panel, a combination of pressing in or

twisting speci c regions to open up sensor-based locks. After several minutes,

the hatch slid open and Tanav turned his light straight up at a maintenance duct

of some kind. “You see it?” Matthews asked. “There should be some wiring going through

there.”

“Um…” Tanav started. “Some wiring” was a bit of an understatement. All

sorts of colored and glowing cables wove through the cylinder, along with several

lengths of sti composite tubing. “That’s a combination of power lines, propulsion lines, and EM waveguide. As long as the engines aren’t running, you’ll be ne. Climb up. That stu is

sturdy, you can use it to pull yourself up. Halfway through, there will be a gap. Pause there.”

Tanav did as requested, his body contorting to the di erent cables and tubes

that blocked the path. Sweat formed over his brow, and though Matthews

claimed the shaft only ascended twelve feet, the journey upward might as well

have been from a planet’s surface to the upper atmosphere. His ngers felt for

holds, his shoulders burned as he pulled himself up, and his heels searched for

places to grip and steady himself, all until he got to the break point, where over

several minutes Matthews attempted to walk Tanav step-by-step into wiring the

remote secure access interface into the ship’s… something. The RSAI came alive, now a solid green light on its side. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“RSAIs are easy to wire in. They’re made for spying. Even easier when you’re

spying on your own side. I know exactly where this goes. Head on up,”

Matthews said, with an almost teacher-like pride in his voice. Seconds later, he emerged in the near dark of the ship’s cargo hold. “How did

you know this was there?” he asked Matthews through groans as he pulled

himself. “I was in one of these freighters. Got shot down over a colony called Genesis

Climber. All power drained. Pilot dead. Only a maintenance tech aboard. Backside was crushed, side door jammed.” Tanav wiped the sweat out of his eyes

and took in a deep, cooling breath. “She mentioned the prop line shaft—those

are the longest energy lines in the craft. You need to access it at di erent points

for maintenance. We didn’t think it went through, but it did. You just need to

know where to look.” Matthews’s voice changed, words coming out clipped

now. “Don’t take too much time in there. What do you see?”

Tanav angled the shoulder lamp with his hand and swung around slowly. “A

lot of large crates. About twice my height. All the way to the top of the storage

bay. They’ve all got blinking status lights on them.”

“No signs of what they’re for?”

“If you’re asking me for labels and instructions,” Tanav said, inspecting one

up close, “you’re out of luck.”

“Okay. Leave them. They might have alarms. See what else is there.”

“Easy for you to say.” Tanav moved in tentative steps to the back of the

storage bay, where a workstation sat in the corner. “You’re not here breaking into

someone else’s—” He paused, squinting for a closer look. Was that…

Sadler kept the teleportation control device closely clipped to his belt. It had

a distinct pattern of status lights, though: two green across the top, one yellow

on the bottom. The same as he saw here, sitting on some sort of dock. But no cu s or any

other associated tech to go with it. “I think I found a teleportation thing.”

“Thing. De ne ‘thing.’ ”

“The control device. Same type that Sadler has hooked to his belt. Looks

like,” he said, searching all around it, “it’s plugged into a station. Probably charging.” He knelt down for a closer look. “The station’s wired into the ship.”

“That station may be the base of the teleportation tech. Or a more powerful

version. We don’t know how it works, though. Leave it for now, it might be

handy later.” Matthews paused, and Tanav could practically see his crooked “I’m

thinking” expression. “Keep searching. Scout before touching anything.”

Tanav searched elsewhere, though the only other thing left was the hallway

deeper into the ship. Tanav approached, though energy repelled him. “I can’t get

out of the storage bay, though. Force elds. Looks like the cockpit’s at the end of

the hall. And there’s some sort of…” He squinted, trying to make out the details. “It’s a console of some sort. Doesn’t look like it belongs there. Maybe it’s the

only place he could wire it in.”

“Hmph.” The comm popped with that noise. “You know what?

Grab the

smaller teleportation device and get out of there. We’ve seen that one in action,

we can work with it. Two hours ’til we leave the Horizon. It’s just enough time.”

Grab it?

The power cable unplugged like any standard device, but beyond

that, was it wired to any security or anything?

Once again, Tanav felt the urge to

blurt out “easy for you to say,” but that already played out. Instead, he looked

closer and wished he knew how to inspect for traps. “Time for what?”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking. Sadler’s clearly up to something. We need an ace

in the hole.” Through the comm, his words came out with a slow, even

seriousness. “I got an idea.”

The white that surrounded Tanav proved intense enough that he wanted to

close his eyes. Except… he couldn’t. And he couldn’t move his limbs or yell,

despite the feel of electricity rippling through his body. Everything jolted him

forward, and while he remained still, unknown g-forces fought against the

entirety of his body. Then it suddenly stopped. Time returned. Inhale. Exhale. The simple act of breathing. And feeling

activated all the way down to his ngers and toes. Tanav patted himself up and

down just to con rm: yes, it worked. He had teleported. The execution of all things, indeed. Several minutes prior, he’d said goodbye to Demi and Neera, then walked

onto the Silver Lining. Even before that ship’s navigation had fully gone online,

Matthews pulled out the teleportation device from his bag, plugged it into the

nearest power portal, and scanned Tanav’s biometrics into its targeting system. A holographic silhouette of Tanav appeared, and Matthews showed him the

most logical, sensible, and likeliest-not-to-die landing point on the Horizon. Demi’s quarters. Because Sadler had given her a cu , one that she’d left on a desk in her

quarters. The cu pinged out a connection to the controller, some sort of

ampli cation of the target signal. Or consolidation. Or whatever it did to it. Matthews tried to explain that it ideally worked with the cu on a person, but

from all of the basic metrics he could nd, it at least brought in a general

location. Tanav half suspected he made it up just to assuage his fears. Either way, they only had one path forward. Matthews didn’t bother

explaining what was happening to Aurora and Casey, instead starting

teleportation preparations while Tanav changed out of his GCF uniform with its

augmented comm chip. Tanav put on a tech-free shirt, walked to the corner of the Silver Lining’s

main cargo hold deemed closest to the Horizon, stood extremely still, then

waited for Matthews to nod. He arrived. About two feet away from a wall—and farther away from the cu

than he would have liked. But at least not half in the oor or with a table slicing

through his midsection. Feet on ground, body in tact, private comm still in his

ear. “I made it,” Tanav said. He grabbed the cu and examined it closer. “I’m in

one piece. I never want to do that again.” The cu snapped around his wrist, an

ironic action given what he had just said. Still, some equipment was better than

no equipment, even though he had no idea what he might use it for. “Okay, pop star.” Matthews cleared his throat. “I’m taking the Silver Lining. And I have to explain all this to Sterling and Tarell. If I don’t make it back to Cluster space, you know they didn’t take it well. You’re a good o cer,

Counselor Lexin.”

“I’m not an o cer.”

“Yes, you are,” Matthews said. “Go save the day. Good luck.”

Without any more ceremony, the line clicked dead. Soon followed by a

familiar confused whine from the oor next to him. “Indy,” Tanav said. “Sorry to just arrive like this. I have to—”

Something was di erent about Demi’s quarters. It took a few seconds for

Tanav to realize it, and the disorientation from the photonic teleportation still

made his thoughts go a little slower than he would have liked. He blinked several

times, rst quickly to center his thoughts, then slowly to focus his vision because

the room seemed darker than usual. Chuck’s containment unit wasn’t there. The translation matrix was. Along with the various cables and pieces

previously connected to it—processors, interpretation output, and other stu

that Neera had set up to translate the interdimensional transponder/photonic

urn. Did Demi take him?

No, because he just saw her at the docking tube. He glanced at the clock, and

by his check, only a few minutes had passed since they parted. There was no way

for her to get over here, unhook Chuck, and go lug him somewhere in that span. And she wouldn’t have left him in engineering or any other location. That only led to one possible outcome:

Sadler stole Chuck. Despite the fear rolling in his gut, maybe he had learned something from

Matthews after all. Because even in the face of that, he saw the next step so

clearly that he started his sprint out of the room without even saying bye to Indy,

a hurried journey eventually bringing him to a hallway with Neera and Demi. CHAPTER 35

DEMI

On their trip back to Cluster space, Chuck had counted o the jumps one by

one, his mechanized voice going in sequence starting from “jump one.”

Except it never got to “jump thirteen.”

“What’s happening?” Demi asked, loading up status holograms. Chuck

stood up from the rst o cer’s chair, the servos from his mechanical legs

grinding with the motion. In front of the bridge’s window, a holographic

viewscreen projected an image of Neera, Macek, and Aurora dashing between

engineering stations. “A stall has occurred in the engine.”

“I see it,” Chuck said, a data tablet in his mechanical hand chirping as

updated numbers and graphs scrolled by. “The engine has initiated a connection

with photonic space but can’t complete the jump cycle. We are too heavy.”

The entire ship shook, enough that Lynn steadied herself at the comm station

as it swayed back and forth. “Heavy?” Demi asked. “What does that mean?”

Chuck’s glow twinkled, a move that Demi had come to recognize as the

equivalent of a human’s furrowed brow. He was thinking. Though the ship

rattled again, and Demi sti ed a scream of disbelief at how things went wrong at

the very last possible moment. “Our energy calculations were based on the Horizon’s maximum capacity. Due to accumulated refugees, the ship is over capacity and the engine is stalling. This should not have been an issue, and it’s possible that the energy source

became extra volatile from the collapsing well. That may have impacted its e cacy. We’re like,” he said, “the Earth saying of ‘one foot out the door.’

Photonic and physical space are pulling on the Horizon.” That probably wasn’t

the right saying for the situation. But Demi gave Chuck points for trying, and

later on—after they survived this—she’d correct him. Being pulled apart by opposing dimensional forces—that wasn’t something

GCF engineers planned for when they designed the ship. Before Demi could say

anything, Chuck handed over the tablet and walked across the bridge. An alarm

chime came from her chair’s console, prompting a hologram of data showing

fractures in the starboard hull. By the time she managed to send more to

structural integrity elds, Chuck had left the bridge. “Where are you going?” she yelled over another shake. But she knew the

answer to that question—he was going to engineering, where Neera and his

team kept scrambling. But why?

“I know what the engine needs,” he said. She should stay on the bridge and trust Chuck and the engineering team. But

something tore at her gut, a rm intuition that knew this went beyond tools and

scanners. “Keep me posted,” she shouted as she started toward the exit. “Tell the

science lab to shift as much power as needed to maintain structural integrity. We’re keeping the Horizon together.” As she moved, she spoke directly into her

comm. “Transmission, Kim to Chuck.” Chuck didn’t answer, and after two

more hails, she patched through to Neera. Neera answered as she stepped into the elevator, another rattle hitting the

ship right as she descended. “Chuck’s containment unit now has cables attached

to it,” Neera said. He continued explaining, but those words slipped into white

noise as Demi arrived. The doors to engineering opened, and another rumble

tore through the ship as she met Neera and Macek on the lower level. As for Chuck?

His mech legs folded under his cubic body, like a twisted kind

of kneeling. Several cables were plugged into the side of the containment unit, a

thing he’d done before for maintenance. The issue came from the cables connecting with the intake chamber of the

photonic engine. “Wait,” she yelled, slipping between Neera and Macek to kneel in front of

him. “What are you doing?”

Chuck’s plane of light glowed with a brightness that forced her to squint, the

pink now intensifying into a blinding white. “More stable photonic energy is

needed to complete this nal jump. This will get both feet out the door.”

“That’s not totally what it means,” Demi said, desperation lacing her words. “We have other options.”

“We do not. Without this, the Horizon will be pulled apart in six minutes. Either everyone dies or I die. It is a simple case of mathematics.” Demi reached

over toward the locking mechanism of the plugged-in cable, but Chuck’s robotic

hand grabbed hers— rst blocking her, then interlocking their ngers. “Please

don’t,” he said, his robotic voice laced with a softer e ect. “Neera, run the

sequence again.”

The entire photonic engine groaned, a rattle like the extinction burst of a

dying beast. “No,” Demi said. “No, we’re so close. This isn’t how it’s supposed

to end for us.”

The torsion of dimensional pulling shook the Horizon again, tools and

tablets ying o the engine room’s workbench. “There are ninety-four beings aboard the Horizon. You are one of them. I am

another. Ninety-three will survive. Ninety-three is better than zero.”

“Damn it, stop with the stupid numbers, that’s Neera’s thing,” she said,

emotions breaking past her defenses to glisten her eyes. “We’ll nd a way. We

always have. Every single time something happened to us, we—”

“I cannot,” he said, and his plane of light ashed, a palpable heat coming

from it. “I cannot stop with the ‘stupid numbers.’ It is how I operate. But”—a

series of clicks and low thunks came from the engine—“the physical realm has

taught me of purpose behind the numbers. Of beauty in that purpose. The only

way it works is if I get you home.”

“What if we stay here?

It’s modular. We could break apart the engine, right?”

Demi asked, the questions coming out fast, and without any sense except for

being ideas that o ered a chance. “We could power it down. Dismantle it. We

might even be in communications range of the Cluster—”

“Demi,” he said. “I am going to get you home. Just promise me one thing.”

She didn’t respond, her wide eyes now unable to comprehend anything in this

moment, let alone speak. “When you get there, get that dog you always wanted. Like when you were a child. They sound like wonderful companions.”

Chuck’s robotic hand went limp. His plane ashed again, then compressed

down into a piercing white that siphoned into the cable, all the way into the

engine intake. He sat there, a glowing ball of energy di erent from the pink swirl

he used to be, and a ash came. Then another ash. Then two rapid ashes. One plus one equals two. Chuck’s brilliance melded with the rest of the energy within the intake, and

within seconds, the entire system hu ed and groaned. The Horizon shook again,

then the whole thing shut down. “We’re in Cluster space,” Macek said quietly. Demi blinked, then blinked again. She kept blinking, trying to make sure

what she saw in front of her was true. Within the empty intake chamber oated a muted purple spark—immobile,

without sparkle, without life. Since then, she’d kept Chuck in her quarters, her most private con dant next

to a greyhound who preferred naps. Other than the occasional maintenance for

the containment unit or to interface with the translation matrix, Chuck stayed

put. Until now. She’d lost him once. She refused to let it happen again. Tanav sprinted through an explanation about his past few hours—and how

Matthews of all people was the one who snuck him back on board the Horizon. How his own background as both non-military and a visitor from another

universe kept him safe. How he’d experienced teleportation and lived to tell the

tale. Why Matthews really needed the Horizon. And it made sense, including his

level of secrecy given the issues with spies. But then everything went to hell. While Demi quietly nodded through each passing revelation, her body

fought everything. Her pulse raced. Her breath quickened. Her cheeks ushed,

and her entire body tensed. She needed a release. Somehow. But that wouldn’t come. That couldn’t come now. The fear, rage, confusion,

love, hate, panic, they all bubbled under the surface, but she held tight to an

absolute shell of calm. Her breath remained steady, her posture stayed sti and

professional, her face never revealing any of those emotions. She couldn’t let any of that out. No, her brain needed to focus on a plan. “Neera, what can we do about these force elds?” She stepped back and

squinted at the row of small generators in the ceiling panels. “An analysis of their schematics is imminent, and it will provide some

options.”

“I need an assessment now.” She gave into her impulse to pace as she thought

through options. She could try raising Sadler one more time—he might answer

and they could stall. Tanav had the teleportation cu , and that seemed like it

might give them some possibilities as well. Or perhaps Neera could hack through

one of the data lines to see what Sadler was really up to. Or—

“Demi,” Tanav said, “are you all right?”

“Of course,” she snapped immediately. “Our rst priority should be—”

“Demi,” Tanav said again, his voice slow and deliberate, “are you all right?”

Her response came with re exive speed. “I will be once we recover Chuck and

stop Sadler.”

“Well,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “That’s going to take a

minute, so…” His words faded out, a glint of compassion shining in his eyes. “Someone once told me, ‘You gotta slow down. Don’t rush the bake. Don’t

jump to the next step.’ ”

“The bake.” Tanav was correct. Lynn was correct. Correct enough that Demi

paused and told herself to feel the ground beneath her feet, like she was in her

quarters with boots kicked o .

“I guess that means you forgive me for kicking

you o the ship?” she nally asked. “I mean, I gure it has something to do with this.” Tanav gestured around

them. “Unless you’re just being a jerk.”

“This was my secret plan for a private ramen night,” she said, prompting a

wry grin from him—and that provided more comfort than Demi would admit

to herself. “That, and Sadler sure knows how to apply pressure.” Demi tried to not ramp her thoughts back up to full speed. Nothing had conceivably

happened just yet, not to Chuck or the Horizon or the engine. “Neera?” she asked, turning to her chief engineer. He replied by holding up

his scanner, its display showing various bars and lines growing and shrinking. None of it meant anything to her other than that things processed, and

processing was better than doing nothing. “There appears to be a solution, though it provides further complications.”

Both Tanav and Demi groaned at the last part of the statement, yet Neera

seemed to miss their very human reactions. He stepped past Demi to open up a

small panel on the side of the wall, revealing several layers of tubes and cables. “This line,” he said, pointing at a cable near the top of the bundle, “can disrupt

power to the ESF generators in the ceiling. A power disruption leads to the

generators halting in sequence from start to nish until a redundant circuit

restores that line.” He tilted the scanner so the display presented clearly to Demi

and Tanav, and on it, a schematic showed eight ESF generators along the length

of the ceiling. Neera tapped the screen and the display changed, the green

generator icons starting to gray out from left to right until they restored and

switched to blue. “That’s our window to leave,” Demi said as she glanced up. “How wide will

it be?”

“The distance of clearance may only be half of the ESF generators at best,”

Neera said, matching her look before pointing at an angle to the left side of the

ceiling panel. “The power switch will start with the farthest one, then in

sequence.”

“And how long will it be open?”

“A fraction of a second at best,” Neera said. “Several variables a ect the time

between the primary and redundant power swap, including the current state of

ship power usage, the distance—”

“All right,” Demi said. “I’m taking that as there are limitations to this

strategy.”

“I would not recommend trying to get us both out. Redundant power will be

reactivating the force eld, and ill timing may lead to it cutting through a body —human or Dywen.” Neera glanced up at the ceiling. “This process cannot be

repeated until the system recalibrates itself to baseline. That will take an hour.”

“Are you sure?” Tanav asked. “Numbers never lie. These calculations are set without any new variables to

disrupt the power.”

Demi’s eyes scanned the area, looking for something that might be a “new

variable” so a force eld wouldn’t slice her in half. Her eyes went wide as she

realized that the solution might not be part of the power systems. It might come from a farm. “Neera,” Demi said slowly, “do you remember the last ramen night?

Aurora

said her family peppers were hot enough to disrupt the power lines. She said,

‘Don’t ask me how I know.’ But if anyone would have asked her, it would have

been you.”

Neera’s demeanor had switched from grim to curious. “I did ask. I had asked

about the properties that made the peppers glow. We did an analysis. A low-level

natural current runs through them, causing an exothermic chemical reaction. The heat and the glow are created by this reaction. A temporary shutdown

happened when Aurora did not fully wash her hands and opened a conduit. The

action pulled the power levels outside of acceptable ranges.”

Even before Neera nished his sentence, Demi was sprinting over to where

she’d left Aurora’s glowing hot peppers in the observation lounge. She came

back and handed them to the Dywen. “These will buy us more time?”

“It should increase the window of safety. Possibly up to three seconds.” Neera

looked closer at the peppers. “Possibly.”

“All right. We’ll thank Aurora the next time we see her. Don’t touch your

eyes after handling them.” That prompted a laugh from Tanav, though they all

quickly returned to the seriousness of the situation. Demi moved to the tangible

edge of the force eld. “I’ll go this time. Tanav and I will nd Sadler.” Her nerves

came alive, a rolling momentum as plans formulated. “And Chuck.” She pointed

down the hallway. “You’ll need to nd a way to take the force eld down

permanently. Then go to the hangar bay and see if you can pull any information

about what Sadler’s doing. Find us an advantage. And remember, we don’t

know how or where he’s listening. Even right now.”

“Are you sure?” Tanav asked. “There might be—”

Demi shook her head. Was this the best choice?

It made for the logical one,

given Sadler’s position and current status and the unknowns about his goals. And while something might have worked better, they didn’t exactly have time to

deliberate. Anything messing with ship’s power lines and force elds deserved

more of a thoughtful approach, sanity checks for holes in their logic or missed

variables. But the luxury of double-checking their work, well…

That wasn’t exactly available to them right now. “I cannot guarantee anything,” Neera said. “Casualties have occurred because

of my recent decisions.”

Demi understood that all too well. But sometimes, choice was a luxury. “Decisions have consequences. We can’t know with every decision. But we have a

responsibility to deal with the consequences.” She pressed her hand on the force

eld, the magnetic-like pushback temporarily numbing her palm. “We have to

go. Now.” Her legs tensed, muscles ready to spring forward before any second-

guessing might occur. “That’s an order, Commander. I’m the test run. If it

works for me, you nd another way out. And if it kills me,” Demi said with an

exhale longer than she would have liked, “can one of you feed Indy dinner

tonight?”

A quiet laugh came from Tanav, though Neera stayed quiet, Demi’s levity in

the moment probably clashing with Neera’s sense of duty. He wouldn’t stay

irritated at her—either he’d learn to laugh at the situation or she wouldn’t be

around to teach him further. “You will need to move swiftly when you hear the

generator shut o .

That is your cue,” he said. Neera spent the next few minutes

poised over a console, his ngers dancing over a display of the wall’s power

schematic until the lines between units crossed in di erent patterns. He held up

one glowing pepper. “A temporary overload has been prepared. Listen for the

generator.”

Demi shut her eyes and let herself have a ash of a thought: Grant would have

really loved how ramen night saved the ship. From above came several clicks, so close to each other that they rattled like

echoes. Demi jumped. CHAPTER 36

NEERA

Neera watched Demi leap through the deactivated ESF. She landed with enough

momentum for her feet to stumble another step forward. She paused, checking

herself up and down before standing tall. She turned to Neera, who met her

gaze. “Your turn. Go nd out what Sadler’s up to.” Before he could respond, she

turned and left with Tanav down the hall and toward the deck’s elevator. Leaving Neera in a dangerous place:

Alone. No matter what he did, what technical task lay at his ngertips or xes

bubbling in his brain, Neera’s thoughts moved beyond risk analysis; this was

more like blame analysis, and the pattern repeated with relentless force. Seven years in the Lumersian well with Demi and the Horizon should have

taught him about the consequences of choice—they all made mistakes during

that time. Yet none created the level of havoc caused by his own decisions with

Sadler. He owned this. He let Sadler into the photonic engine project. That was the initial condition. He gave Sadler direct access to the Horizon’s network. He lobbied for Sadler to

come aboard, to help them steal the ship. All of those were objectives. All

accomplished. The best-laid plans, indeed. Just days ago, his mind had lit up with limitless possibilities—saving the

Lumersians, breaking boundaries with the photonic engine, stabilizing synthetic photons. Crew members had died. Macek had died. Lynn had died, in the worst way

possible. Sadler was some sort of secret operative. Chuck was at risk, the

Lumersians were at risk, all of reality was at risk, and the probability that Demi

and Tanav could stop an Oversight agent with a teleportation weapon…

Neera needed a way out of this. He needed to escape the upstream battle in

his mind and help his pack. His ngers stopped, his breath slowed, his feet

grounded. He began again, trying to nd some way to x what he’d created. He started

by doing what his captain ordered: nd a way to dig up Sadler’s true motive. A

few power reroute cycles bought him enough time to escape the force eld. Minutes ticked away as he dashed out of the elevator bay and science lab toward

the front of the Horizon. Until something else stopped him. This time in the form of large doors that

protected the hangar bay. Sadler must have shut down all power to the entire

section’s door systems. “Transmission,” he said into his uniform’s shoulder comm, “Neera to Kim.”

Nothing. Which meant either something deactivated Demi’s comms or she wasn’t in a

position to answer. Which also meant that he owned his next decisions

completely. He needed a way through. Or possibly…

A way around. Neera’s thoughts rolled as he moved aft, standing in the middle of the large

storage hangar that also acted as a junction point. Behind him sat the inaccessible docking bay. Ahead of him gave three

options: a side hall returning to the observation lounge, two elevators to go

elsewhere in the ship, or another door for the Horizon’s science lab. The observation lounge was inaccessible. Other decks might o er tools to

help, but they might also be dead ends—either with disabled doors or additional

ESF elds. Neera angled his head, bringing into focus the third option. He moved

forward, each step echoing against the oor, and he approached the science lab

until he got close to trigger the doors’ sensors. A hydraulic whoosh sound came as the doors slid open to reveal a fully

operational space. The science lab acted as a secondary engineering station when needed, with

displays and controls fed by di erent operational stations—including

communications. In most circumstances, that wouldn’t prove particularly

helpful. Neera recognized the key to it now—when they’d rst discussed moving

beyond o cial work on the photonic engine, Sadler secured their transmission. That must have been Oversight tech to prevent detection by the GCF. He’d sent

a patch to Neera’s account, a secured tunnel just between the two of them. Sadler had used that to protect their conversations. But for someone with

experience as a communications engineer for the Regent Empire?

Neera could nd a way. He focused, connecting the science lab’s comm

station into a portal for his own account. From there, time melted away as he

moved data through di erent paths, inverting or circumventing security until…

There it was. Though Sadler’s ship sat behind locked doors, Neera may as well have been

inside it. Thanks to Sadler directing his ship’s communications through the

Horizon’s network, Neera found back door after back door using Sadler’s own

security patch. This digital tunnel wasn’t powerful enough to activate the ship

or disable its functions or anything of that nature, but for now, it o ered

something more powerful:

Information. And truth. Neera scrolled through the archives, a complete history of Sadler’s

transmitted texts and transcriptions of conversations using this secure channel. Including his own—a stack of discussions that he skipped, the guilt inside

burning deeper as each message came by. Guilt, though, dissolved into curiosity. And panic, as everything came

together. Messages between Sadler and an Oversight supervisor named Warston. Too

many messages to read; he skimmed enough and downloaded the rest as copies

for later, but even that revealed an overwhelming amount of details:

Since the Horizon returned to Cluster space, Oversight had taken a keen

interest in the possibilities of photonic tech. Sadler’s primary task was to learn

everything about the engine. In the early days of generating synth from matter-

based energy, Neera had thought that Sadler’s suggestions came from

enthusiasm about this new type of science. There may have been some truth in

that, but also Sadler had a team of fteen Oversight scientists building

prototypes and running experiments in parallel to his operations, everything

from failed attempts at replicating the engine to the synth generation project to

smaller-scale experiments in photonic energy. This included experimental long-

range communication, using the photonic dimension to carry digital

communications to standard transceivers, even all the way out here. And one more project: teleportation. All of this bypassed GCF Command, with Warston dealing with the admirals

and vice admirals and government o cials as they moaned about war resources. And when people like Matthews pushed for the Horizon to be recalled to the

front line?

Warston ordered Sadler to get involved. Someone in Oversight brass thought the Horizon and its mash-up of tech

gave them an advantage against something only identi ed as Threat Z. The

messages showed an argument about whether Threat Z was a greater issue than

the gradually expanding well. Ironically, Sadler proved a measured weighing of

evidence of both, but it didn’t matter—Warston identi ed a successful photonic

engine as a priority, with its fallout being a new range of technology that could

also stomp out the WM. Then they would focus the next phase of their operations—though Neera

couldn’t nd those details. In the latest messages, Sadler detailed the unexpected

damage from the WM boarding party, along with pessimistic estimates of

repairing the synth generator. His nal message: An alternative power source is needed to get the engine

online. In recent days, Sadler insisted that he focus on the synth generator. “You’re

needed on the engine’s nal checks. Let me handle this.”

Neera’s instincts told him something was o .

He’d spent much more hands-

on time over recent months with the generator, and yet he deferred to Sadler’s

direction. He now understood: his instinct was right and deferring to Sadler was wrong. Neera should have trusted himself. “Transmission,” Neera said as he took in the information, “Neera to Kim.”

He looked around, half expecting some sort of trap or security to come after

him. He remembered to choose his words very carefully. “I have procured

relevant data.”

The Colin Sadler who was his friend, fellow scientist, and fellow engineering

enthusiast wouldn’t have done that. But the Colin Sadler in these messages, that

person was more than capable of such things. Again, Demi didn’t answer. He tried not to worry. Multiple reasons could

cause his hail to be ignored. Neera had ful lled his orders. He’d learned the how and why behind Sadler. Now, with Demi and Tanav still as unknowns and Matthews on his way back to

Cluster space, Neera looked at the range of consoles within the science lab. The Neera of the Regent Empire would see everything in front of him as

technology to be harnessed within guidelines and parameters. But as he

considered the circumstances, synthesized the waves of guilt and anger and

commitment pushing inside of him, he made a decision. Six science consoles, three lab stations, and a workbench. Those were not just

pieces of technology. No, Neera now saw them for what they truly were, for how Demi would see

them:

Possibilities. CHAPTER 37

TANAV

As they stepped out of the elevator, Demi signaled him to pause. She put a hand

out, waving it in front of her, scanning around, from the closed double doors in

front of them to the hallway’s walls to the far side of the deck lined with empty

crew quarters. It took several seconds, but Tanav soon understood Demi’s deliberative

movements—they led to smart questions. Like why weren’t other force elds set

up?

Why weren’t any drones or other automated security in their path?

Why was it so easy?

If the answers stumped Demi, she didn’t give it away. She pushed onward,

and they quietly arrived at the entrance for engineering. Neera had hailed

moments earlier, which Demi waved away. If there was a time to return the call,

they had a moment—but Demi didn’t do that. “Could he be expecting us?” Tanav asked. “Might have even baked pie. Trying to outdo your recipe.” Demi turned his

way. “Just keep an eye out for things, all right?

Let me do the talking.” A hum

activated, its tone quickly going from low to high, and Tanav looked down to see

her handing him a pistol. “Take this just in case. I trust you. Though try not to

shoot me, please.”

A weapon. Next steps would really need careful consideration from here on

out. “I’m not the best with these things.”

“You don’t need to be,” Demi said. “Just get a lucky shot.”

With that, she stepped to trigger the doors’ sensors, and the doors slid open

to a surprisingly calm view: the Horizon’s FTL engine, the photonic engine now

repaired and online, and the synthetic generator. And in the middle, Colin Sadler with tools in hand. In front of Sadler, though, sat eight containment units, all tied together into

one long snake of glowing photonic energy. Except for the front one. That one

lay mostly dark, except for a glowing purple spark in the middle of it, like the

head of the snake. Tanav caught Demi’s gasp as she recognized Chuck, though she quickly

straightened up and smothered her feelings. They stepped in, footsteps

announcing their presence. Sadler didn’t move, though. He didn’t even react. Instead, he continued tapping away at the various displays in front of him while

moving around the setup, the glowing pink of the synth casting shadows in

many directions. Demi took a measured step with a hand out, only for a ash of

energy to strike her palm. A force eld. “If you’re expecting some sort of grand speech, you got the wrong type of

Oversight agent,” Sadler said. “I like math. I’m more of a ‘calculate the time I

need to nish’ type of guy.”

“That explains the barrier. You mind telling me why you’re doing this?”

Demi asked. She moved back and forth across the small entranceway, and while

the limited space prevented her usual wide pacing, it probably let her at least

gauge di erent angles to Sadler’s speci c actions. “I’m failing to see why you’re

separating us. We both want the engine working. We both know that it’s critical

to deliver Chuck to the Lumersians. Other than the GCF divisions we work for,

we’re really on the same side. Kind of makes your dramatic setup a little silly.”

Sadler squinted at Tanav. “Guess you didn’t leave?

Your captain and I had an

agreement about that.”

“I hid,” Tanav said. “You didn’t look.”

Sadler tapped at a tablet. “You kept your word otherwise,” he said to Demi. “Appreciate it. A B-plus grade.” He turned back to the hardware, moving from

station to station—with occasional stops at the hovering workbench where

Chuck remained. Tanav squinted at Chuck’s containment unit; no data holograms hovered, no

abnormal status lights blinked, and Chuck’s spark came with the same hue it

always had. Beyond that, a screen with ship status showed something that was

abnormal—various systems were o ine, including weapons. That probably wasn’t because of Neera. “I see you,” Demi said again. “You’re trying to do this all on your own. There

are two stations there. The engine and the synth generator. Neera always had a

second set of hands. Aurora, Macek, Lynn, me, whoever was available. You

worked with him, you know this.” She stood at the center of the invisible wall

between them. “Let me help you. Drop this force eld. We’ll do it together.”

“You’re right. We’re both trying to get this engine to jump. We both want to

go there,” Sadler said in a surprisingly contrite tone. Tanav narrowed his eyes,

suspicious. Given how he held the advantage over everything, that shift exposed

a possibility. Tanav kept his hands behind his back, the pistol primed in his hand. If Sadler

did drop the force eld, should he shoot him right away?

Demi stayed trained on

the Oversight operative, no signal one way or another to Tanav. “Good, we agree. So, people who agree shouldn’t be separated by force elds. That’s not how collaboration works.” Now she looked up at the ceiling,

probably to assess the generators embedded in the panels above them. She gave

Tanav a sharp look, then nodded again above—a gesture he took as her request

for doing the same. Shoot a series of ESF generators in the ceiling?

What would happen if he

missed?

Was there a right spot or wrong spot to blast?

And would it completely

shut down the eld?

Tanav gured that doing so would not set o a catastrophic chain reaction,

despite his own misgivings. Demi wouldn’t hint at it otherwise. So the biggest

issue would probably be missing and making Sadler mad. Sadler paused in his actions, hunched shoulders rising and falling in breaths. Finally, he faced them, hands on hips and a sour look across his lips. “I can’t x the synth generator.”

That caught Demi by surprise, enough that she took a step back and red

another glance at Tanav. Tanav certainly wasn’t expecting it either. Was Sadler lying?

Demi must have considered the same thing. “What proof do you have of

that?” she asked. “Neera would have caught that.”

Sadler grabbed the last of the synth containment units and hit the unit’s

repulsors, causing it to lift several inches o the ground. “Neera never saw it. I

had him work on the engine once we restored generator activity.” Several cables

detached with clicks, allowing him to push it close enough that the energy’s

sheen cast a hue over all of them. “Look at the readings,” he said, tapping on the unit’s small display. “Photonic density is down to fty-two percent,” Demi said, leaning close

enough that the faintest of glows showed up in the force eld’s response. “Same issue Neera was having before with synth e ciency. Except this time,

it’s not the engine’s environment causing the decay. It’s the generator itself. It

took a blast from the WM. There’s only so much I can do.” His hand rubbed

over the dark stubble on his cheeks. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Bring Neera in. There’s gotta be something you two can do together,” Demi

said, her tone taking on a strategic lightness. “We’ll nd a way. Look, if all of this

was a misunderstanding, a lack of trust, that’s something we can build.” Both of

her hands went up. “We’ve clearly got o on the wrong foot—”

“I plan to get the engine working. I absolutely do.” Sadler pushed the synth

unit back toward his workspace and quickly followed it, like he was doing simple

maintenance on a shuttle rather than using experimental technology that tapped

into another dimension. “I realized shortly after I started repairs that I need an

alternative power source. I don’t think the WM meant to cause this. But they

did.”

“ ‘An alternative power source’…” Demi said, her voice trailing o .

She looked

at Tanav again, and though she snuck another glance above at the force- eld

generators, one raised eyebrow was enough to tell him to hold o .

“Except,”

Demi said. “If the Horizon was truly stranded, why send the WM ship away?

That could have taken all of us back to the Cluster?” Sadler returned the synth

units into place, forming them in a straight line parallel to the generator and the

engine itself, a runway of pink glowing with cables connecting each of them. “Unless you sabotaged the ship.”

Tanav stayed as quiet and still as possible. If Matthews was right and Sadler

did overlook him, then remaining inconspicuous gave him the best advantage

for whatever opportunity might lie ahead. Sadler’s voice came between the various clicks and pops of his handiwork. “I’m still very aware of the Cluster’s needs. They need that for the war. This is so

much bigger than the war. I don’t think any of you realize this.”

“Transmission,” Demi said, activating her communicator. “Kim to Neera.”

“Demi.” Neera’s voice came through loud enough that it caused Sadler to

turn for a moment. “Sadler is doing something here. He’s got eight containment units of synth

all wired up together. They’re all tied to the engine’s intake. And he says that he

needs—”

“An alternative power source,” they said in unison. Strange that Neera knew that. Dywen empathic abilities couldn’t have

detected that, could they?

“I am asking,” Demi said, projecting her voice loud enough to make her

intentions clear, “Lieutenant Sadler to stand down and let us help. So we can

work together. We want to get this online.”

“That is not an advisable course of action based on what I believe the

alternative power source to be,” Neera said. Lynn would have been able to decipher Neera’s twisty language, but Tanav

couldn’t quite grasp it—other than the fact that Neera disagreed. Sadler seemed

to get it, an eyebrow raised in realization. As for Demi, she remained still for a moment, only her eyes darting back and

forth in thought. Then a sharp inhale came and she pressed forward, one hand

up against the force eld. It sizzled with a ash, probably numbing her hand for

several seconds, yet she held it up. “Chuck.”

Tanav saw Demi’s reaction shift toward a panic she never revealed. That told

him everything about what was at stake—but he didn’t quite grasp the how or

why. That didn’t matter because Sadler’s reaction gave it away. Click by click, he

attached more cables to Chuck to go directly in line with the photonic engine’s

intake module. “Sadler,” she called out, with the closest Tanav had ever heard to a crack in

her voice. “Colin. Don’t do this.”

“Captain Kim, you don’t understand what’s at stake. There is a big, big

universe out here.” He turned and stared at Demi, their eyes locking together. “You can’t put Chuck in there,” Demi said. Her words quickened, the

desperation wrapping them so unlike her usual controlled manner. “You can’t. He needs to go to the Lumersians. They need him to close the well. You don’t

understand, it’s expanding. All of us, across galaxies, across universes. In nine

hundred forty- ve years—”

“In nine hundred forty- ve years, it will expand large enough to reach the

Cluster. Oh I know. I’ve done the calculations myself.” As if he were a student

proving a theory to a professor, Sadler tapped the module closest to him, and a

nearby wall display switched to a simulation of gravity well expansion, its reach

growing larger as the projected year ticked up on a corner counter. “I get it. They

get it. But that’s not my concern. They have centuries to gure that out.”

They have centuries to figure that out. Tanav had heard that before, said often with a dismissive wave of the hand. His parents had said it at one time or another, often about complaints regarding

how Lexin Industries stripped natural materials across planets into assets. Though spoken in di erent contexts, the overlap between the words shook

Tanav, splitting him between past and present. “This is why people join the

Withdrawal Movement.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words deliberately, an

epiphany used as bait to slow Sadler down. “These shortsighted decisions.”

Sadler continued plugging away like he didn’t hear Tanav at all. “I have

orders. I have a job to do.” Across the status display, a spread of charts and

notices all activated, bars gradually rising into ready position. “Captain, your

personal feelings about the Lumersians can’t get in the way. That’s why you’re

behind a force eld. Countless people in thousands of systems live in the

Cluster. In all of that, only a few make the hard decisions to maintain their way

of life.” He paused, and for a split second, weary lines etched across his face,

vanishing as quickly as they arrived. “I’m one of them.”

“At what cost?” Demi asked, slamming the force eld again “You’re

sentencing all of reality to destruction.”

“It’s not just here.” Tanav wasn’t a scientist, but he understood what “across

universes” meant. “It’s my life, in my universe. Other universes—what if they

don’t have the technology to seal o the well?

We can’t make these choices for

them.”

Mechanisms locked into place with clicks. Status panels chirped, and the

engine itself came alive with a constant thrum. “If you have faith in science,” he said as he stared at an engineering module,

“then you have faith that the problem will eventually be solved.”

Demi’s brow angled in de ant lines, though still no signs of orders to Tanav. Tension in his arm caused a twitch, and he held the weapon still and began

looking at speci c feasible targets. “You say you have a job to do. But your duty is more than just a speci c task. Judgment, forethought, context. They train us to apply those things. Look at

what’s happening here. You have a choice,” Demi said. Tanav stood, existing almost outside of time. More activity came from the

engine, clicks and rattles and thunks as mechanisms came alive, the mix of

technologies straining to work together. Several chimes rang out from the

engine’s console. Next to it, blank displays came to life, like switches all icking

to the on position. Adjacent to that, the wall displaying the Cluster star chart changed; instead

of systems and waypoints, it scaled out before a series of jagged yellow lines

mapped a course, angles breaking at speci c points. Convergence points. On the map, more lines drew in, this time starting from the nal destination

of the Lumersian gravity well. It moved in blue, going from convergence point

to convergence point—then it bypassed the location where they were right now

to nally return to the initial jump point in the heart of Cluster space. Tanav

counted the points on the screen, then realized that the number of synth units

matched. The ship was going to the well and then immediately home. The engine

shook, enough force causing the deck plates beneath them to rattle. “I suggest you sit down. You know how photonic jumps induce nausea,”

Sadler said, holding up one hand to reveal a teleportation cu .

“We’re going to the well, then you’re heading home.”

“Tanav,” Demi whispered. She put her hands behind her back, though one of

them formed into the shape of a pistol. He nodded, just subtle enough for her to

see, and her voice returned to normal volume. “Why’s that?”

“Once we get to the well, I’m teleporting to my freighter and setting out. I’ve

programmed an autopilot to jump back to Cluster space once my ship clears. You’ll be sent back to the start of this journey”—he pointed at the star chart

—“where Oversight is ready to take over the Horizon and prepare the engine.”

“Prepare the engine?” Demi asked. “For what?”

“For all the photonic energy we’re going to mine.” Sadler tapped the cu ,

then the teleportation device. A small holographic silhouette of himself

appeared over it. He stopped for a moment, then focused on Tanav. “Oh,

interesting.”

Which got Demi to look at him as well. Their eyes connected, and he nally

snapped his arm out to aim the pistol above them. He squeezed the trigger—

Or at least, his brain told his body to do that. But nothing happened. Time

slowed, everything becoming completely still except for Demi’s voice. “The

cu ,” he heard her say, right when he noticed his cu started blinking blue. After that, electricity spidered up and down his limbs before a cocoon of white

enveloped him and everything disappeared. CHAPTER 38

DEMI

Tanav was gone. Probably not to the depths of space, like Lynn and the other WM invaders. He had a cu —and Sadler detected that. Sadler saw some sort of potential in

that, a last-moment realization that prompted the action. Tanav became an asset

in something, but what?

And where?

Before she could derive an answer, the panels in front of Sadler beeped, and

his attention shifted, now turning to…

Chuck’s containment unit. “Don’t worry, Tanav’s not dead. I borrowed him, just in case he comes in

handy. Gotta think ahead.” Sadler tapped the side of his temple. “You’re not

here to just stop the well,” he said while continuing to work on the unit. “This is

personal. There’s something else involved. You’re un appable.” He patted the

metal frame of the containment unit. “Except for this.”

Demi considered the possibilities in front of her. Only one remained, a path

that she rarely went down in circumstances like these. “You’re right,” she nally said. In return, Sadler paused, and he looked down

at Chuck’s spark. Perhaps despite all training and subterfuge, an actual person

lay at his core after all. Demi chose to give into vulnerability. “There is

something else. About him. About Chuck.”

“Photonic Being Number 910047.” Sadler knelt down and looked directly at

the oating spark. “I’ve read about how you called it—him—Chuck.” He looked over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. “Did your crew know about this

‘something else’?”

“Some. I didn’t want it to be a distraction.” Sadler wasn’t exactly a

heartstrings type of guy; she chose to appeal to what she did know about him. “It’s unexplained.”

Sadler’s lips pursed before he silently nodded and stood. “Okay, Captain. I’ll

give you one minute to state your case.” He stepped away from Chuck, from the

line of containment units, from the engine itself, and took a breath. “Why

should I not activate this engine using these remains?

How does this unexplained

event push photonic science forward?”

A force eld stayed up, and Tanav was no longer around to shoot out its

generators. Time was the only thing she could claw back—for her and Neera. That commodity perhaps more valuable than anything else at this point. “He talked,” Demi said. “About two weeks ago. He said something,

something only he and I would know.” She swallowed hard, and beyond all the

strategizing, a strange feeling uttered in her chest, a certain catharsis formed by

nally speaking these things. “It only came once. He’s in there, somewhere.”

“So you don’t want me to load him into the engine. But,” he said, “what

about the Lumersians?

You need him to collapse the well, right?”

“That is their working theory. But there might be another way. I need to

establish communications with the Lumersians. We’ve only gotten bits and

pieces in these transmissions. There might be some way to collapse the well while

nding out what’s going on with him. For you, this means a di erent form of

photonic energy. We unlock what happened to him, then we unlock more.” She

leaned in, a rhythm to her words. “A gap exists between us and them, and it

seems reasonable—scienti c—that something valuable might be in there. Maybe,” she said, her tone turning brighter, “there’s a way for us to all get what

we want. You want to mine the gravity well; there might be a way to tap into that

while we prevent it from expanding. I want to see if Chuck’s words mean

something. And the Lumersians, they need stability in their dimension, they

need to stop the bleed from photonic into physical. If we”—her hands

emphasized each word with a shake—“if we just slow down, take a moment, we

can see the possibilities.”

“You know,” Sadler said as his words drew out, “if things were di erent, I’d

agree with you. But you’re forgetting one thing.” He stood up and his hand

slammed down on the controls lining Chuck’s unit. A cold, empty beep started,

a mechanical drone that marched with quiet churn. “The WM—led by your

o cer—damaged the synth generator. The synth it’s producing can’t get the

engine to re o .

The only way—the only way—it works is mixing the synth

with a natural spark.”

“GCF o cers have a code of ethics,” Demi said quickly. But now everything

tipped, her statements becoming shouts against everything unfolding. Her

hands balled into sts, and if she could punch through the force eld, she would. “If you let this happen, the engine will burn up what is left of him. You could be

murdering him. You could be dooming his kind, their dimension, all of it.”

“I’m Oversight,” Sadler said dryly. “Those ethics don’t apply to me. And

murder is the least of what I’ve done.”

With that, Sadler hit a ashing button on the console. “Stop!” Demi said. “Don’t do—”

Her pleas came too late. The photonic engine groaned, gears churned, and

new noti cations ashed across the display. Demi slammed the force eld, as if

she hit it just right, it might disintegrate. Energy blinked in response, pins and

needles across her palm, but no changes to the force eld itself. She looked up,

only to see Chuck’s purple spark move—after months of perfect stasis, Chuck’s

only remaining piece oated from the very center of the unit toward the back,

where a clear tube connected it to the engine. The spark trickled upward to make its way farther, and as it did, light

intersected it at all di erent angles and sides, a spectrum of bright hues dancing

within her vision. Demi forced herself to watch, like her intensity might be

enough to reverse everything underway. The single brilliant dot failed to

respond, though, and it emerged into the intake chamber, surrounded in a sea of

pink synth. For several seconds, Chuck’s purple remained distinct against all of

that. Then it disappeared. Demi fell to her knees. She wanted to ght her emotions. To push them back, shove them down. Be

a captain, unshakable and stoic. She couldn’t. Everything sank as the containment units drained into the

engine chamber, one by one fading in intensity until they all sat half-dimmed. The Horizon shook and rattled with each progressive jump, her ability to keep

everything at bay nally loosened. Chuck’s spark represented their whole

purpose. Getting the engine online, saving the Lumersians, collapsing the well. Finding a way to bring him back—or at least understand how his essence

somehow continued. All of that gone. And from the engine itself, the tint of the energy in the chamber changed

ever so slightly, the mixing of Chuck’s spark with the incoming synth created…

something. Not necessarily a color shift, but like someone turned the intensity

and contrast of a display all gradually up. How many minutes passed?

Demi wasn’t sure. Photonic jumps executed near

instantaneously, only the mechanics of the engine requiring time. Sadler’s

tweaks clearly did something to make this happen, and the usual ramp-up/ramp-

down times weren’t needed. Or maybe Sadler just didn’t care about operating

within safety protocols. Either way, the ship nally settled down after twelve successive jumps. Nausea rolled through Demi’s gut, and in front of her, Sadler held himself

up, likely dealing with the same post-jump sensation. The star chart on the wall

changed, the rst line now completely gone. In its place, the icon for the

Horizon sat blinking at the apex of the course, the blue line ready to return to

Cluster space. On the corner of the display, something new:

A countdown timer appeared, starting at 00:30:00 and ticking downward. Neera’s voice came over the comms again, though this time Demi answered. “I’m here, Neera.” Saying simple facts suddenly felt impossible, each breath

and syllable refusing to budge despite the most intentional of forces. “We’ve just

jumped. We’re at the Lumersian well.”

Sadler looked at the screen as well, glancing just long enough to con rm their

destination. From his belt, he pulled out the teleportation device. Di erent

colors on his cu started to glow as it synced up, and he gave one nal look. “Tell Neera,” he said, his voice calm, “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

With that, a white cocoon enveloped him, leaving Demi alone in the engine

room. ARCHIVE OF ENCRYPTED REPORT

Colin Sadler

Oversight Operative / Galactic Cluster Fleet—Research Engineer

In conclusion, despite the many setbacks and unexpected complications, it

appears this initiative’s goal is within reach. Four of the GCF o cers on the

Horizon (Lexin, Sterling, Tarell, Matthews) are about to y back to Cluster

space with new WM technology. Given the extraneous factors involved with

entities beyond publicly known threats and issues, I understand the time-

sensitive nature of orders. I will likely have to improvise some tactics once the

other ship departs, as damage to the synth generator is more extensive than

expected and I am running out of options. It is my understanding that most of GCF Command and Cluster

governmental leadership do not know about the true potential of photonic

technology. Given the imminent potential return of the Horizon and the start of

our long-term operations, it seems very practical to provide some cursory

knowledge. Of the proposed cover stories discussed, I recommend going with

option 3.

Option 1 (recruit Captain Kim to cooperate with Oversight) seems

very unlikely, though depending on how the next few hours unfold, I would

keep it as a remote possibility. Option 2 (recruit WM support) remains

unfeasible and more dangerous. On a personal note, I should note that the Dywen refugee known as Neera

(see previous notes on unknown species from the gravity well) is an incredible

engineer and has deep knowledge of the photonic engine. Captain Kim appears

to be extremely protective of him, but I feel that he would make an excellent

Oversight engineer, with the potential to lead in the area of photonic research. CHAPTER 39

TANAV

Tanav was alive. Which was surprising. And most welcome. When the wall of light began to encapsulate him, he gured that would be

the end of things. Strange that rather than dread, resignation set in, even a sliver

of peace. When he teleported into Demi’s quarters, anxiety stretched out the

process of emerging, all sorts of panicked thoughts telling him to check that he

didn’t re-form halfway through a wall or a table. Here, things simply… happened. Like before, white bled through everything he saw, felt, as if the energy itself

soaked through his pores down to nerves and tissue. Air stood still, yet pressure

threatened to crush him, sound simply disappeared. Then it all inverted. Feeling returned, from toes to ngers to blinking eyes. Maybe Tanav was getting used to this. Except this time, he materialized in darkness, though not quite silence. Instead, a rhythmic electronic chirp greeted him, and as his eyes adjusted, tiny

dots of glowing blue lights came into view. The disorienting ush of the process meant that he needed a few moments to

put it all together, along with the fact that he wasn’t freezing to death in the

vacuum of space. No, he’d re-formed with feet on the ground, limbs ready, a

standard comfortable environment, and then it hit him:

He’d been here before. In fact, just a few hours ago, he had crawled up

through the guts of a maintenance shaft—and halfway through, learned how to

wire a RSAI into a secondary power line. This was Sadler’s ship. Sadler had targeted him to appear behind the force

elds he had seen earlier; in fact, he materialized between two columns of the

massive crates, the cu ’s precise teleportation placing him safely—even with a

small radius of clearance. Tanav waved his hand ahead, the ash and sparkle of a

force eld brie y illuminating the space, though it also made his hand numb for

several seconds. Whether Sadler intended to use this small space as an emergency brig or if it

was just a convenient spot in his ship, Tanav didn’t know. But he did appreciate

the precision—he only had an arm’s length around him. Even sitting down

would be di cult, given the space. But priorities rst: a quick tap on his feet and

legs and waist ensured that yes, everything arrived in one piece. Except, now what?

Survival was great, but what played out on the Horizon?

And why take him?

Sadler clearly acted with intention and strategy. He

wouldn’t take Tanav as a trophy—not even as a hostage. The Lumersians

weren’t going to barter for him, and Sadler had already gotten what he wanted

from Demi and Neera. Tanav leaned against the storage bay’s cold wall, and though he might have

best used that time trying to gure out an escape plan, the quiet provided ample

space to actually stew with his thoughts. Sort of. He probably should have

reviewed previous military advice from Matthews, or any technical steps

remembered from Neera about force elds. Hell, he probably should have been

banging the metal walls or searching the containers on either side for some hole

in the force eld. Yet he just kept thinking about Lynn. Not the questions about their future or

Thaddea or journeys to other universes. Or choices to join a secessionist group. Just her. Her attitude, her spirit, her endless baking experiments. And the

way she always sang songs under her breath. A moment like that existed several weeks ago, early morning while he made

them co ee. She rolled over in bed and told him about the theory of the

multiverse, that every possible decision from anyone ever spawned o a new and

distinct universe. Somehow, that theory didn’t exist in the popular culture of his

universe, and no one mentioned it during their time in the well, but right then

and there, Lynn did. She wondered about all of the slight variants of their situation. There must have been versions of themselves who escaped the well,

maybe settling down somewhere as farmers. And another version who lived in a

stable colony until they got old. Even one where they found a time machine to

go back to the early 2000s to see Rilo Kiley live in concert. “2001,” she’d said

speci cally. “To see the Take Offs and Landings tour. Or their reunion shows. Or maybe when Jenny Lewis played solo. Maybe the shows with the Watson

Twins. That would have been an experience.”

But in this universe, they were together. And she had been secretly informing

the Withdrawal Movement while she’d said that. While he’d obsessed about how

to get back home. He thought of that now, the wisdom of hindsight presenting itself: Knowing

what would happen with the WM, Lynn had wished for a di erent ending. Not

necessarily a happily ever after. More like a simpler ever after. And some version of them in the multiverse got that. Take Offs and Landings. Tanav breathed, his mind ooded with images and memories and singsong

voices, breaking only when the entire ship rattled. He steadied himself, then

looked up to make sure that the massive crates weren’t going to fall on him. A

wave of nausea came, causing him to buckle over for a moment. He knew what

happened. Successive jolts hit at a regular cadence, and Tanav lost count of the

times the ship shook. After that, everything stopped. The craft settled, oor plating and walls

creaking to a perfect silence until a new noise arrived—a high-pitched electric

buzz that grew in both volume and intensity, followed by a blinding ash. When that went away, Sadler stood on the other side of the force eld, just as

they had in the Horizon’s engine room. Except here, hums and chirps ramped

up, the gradual din of the freighter coming to life, followed by the sound of

something powering down. Sadler lowered the force eld—though he also pulled out a gun. A gun—didn’t Tanav have one?

The last few minutes proved so dizzying that

he’d forgotten about it, and as his ngers exed to search, Sadler cocked his head. “Oh,” he said, “I added a weapons lter on the teleporter. It identi es the

shape and circuitry of known weapons and scatters their particles.” He held up

his own pistol and then pointed it at Tanav. “Unless you’re me, of course. Let’s

move.”

They stepped from the storage bay to a hallway where a makeshift console jutted

out. Just to the left sat a smaller storage room; Tanav’s quick glance showed that

space didn’t have any consoles or systems—no tech of any kind, or storage, for

that matter, though the room had a wide bench along the back. He recognized

it, as every universe had one: the industrial type, the kind that led to

uncomfortable naps and aching joints. Sadler gestured to that room with purpose. Tanav stepped in, another force

eld activated at the doorway, leaving Tanav with nothing but hard seating and a

partial view of Sadler’s actions at the cockpit, if not his intentions. From the

front window, he saw the shuttle lift o and exit the Horizon’s long runway. And from the eerie pink glow outside, their location was clear. They were at the nal convergence point—the new gravity well. Which,

based on the color, was roughly the same as the original gravity well, though it

lacked the complete and solid density of the previous well. Now its expanse

appeared more like a thick nebula, gradients weaving together with a wispy

cloudiness. The Lumersian transmission had talked about instability and rapid

expansion, and this looked like the di erence between a solid wall and a patchy,

degrading one. So, there was that. Sadler angled the ship around slowly, the pitch and yaw on the central

console tilting against a calibrated line. In front of them, the Horizon came into

view, now sitting idly below them. Somewhere inside, Demi and Neera were

trying to gain some control over the large craft. Sadler didn’t pay attention to the

Horizon. Screens came alive on his console, and if Tanav interpreted the

information correctly, then the freighter’s back storage door was opening. And those crates?

Those activated as well, based on the ashing diagrams on

the display—eight of them, one for each crate. Why had they activated?

The

screen showed a grid that tracked metrics like energy storage and engine

capability, but all sat at zero. On the display above the window, the image ipped to a live feed

broadcasting the storage bay, its wide door rolling upward and a shimmering

force eld keeping the pull of space from dragging everything out of there. The

rst crate elevated, a bottom propulsion that lifted the cube before corner

thrusters pushed it through the force eld and into space. It hit the glowing

cloud of the well, and as it pushed deeper away from the ship, square arrays

unfurled from either side of it, like historic satellites from the dawn of space

exploration. The other crates followed, one by one, and on the display grid, the drone

status shifted, the words Mining arrays active popping up in each box. But beneath that status, new words ashed—words that didn’t make sense:

No photonic energy detected. How could the drones not detect any photonic energy while traveling

through an entire sea of it?

Sadler stared ahead with an unblinking look as he assessed everything in front

of him. He groaned with a “Hmph,” then tapped at buttons and icons. Nothing

changed, and as he rubbed his chin, he shot a look at Tanav. Their eyes met for a

moment, and Tanav considered what he could actually do in this situation. He had no weapons—and really, he’d be useless with that anyway. But he did

have a lifetime of understanding how people operated and the importance of

parsing out information, asking questions, taking advantage of what was

presented. Of thinking about next steps. “I think you got the wrong guy,” Tanav started, his mind ring o ways to

draw out what Sadler actually wanted—and needed. “I don’t know if you

realized this, but there’s a reason why I’m not on the o cial crew roster.”

Sadler punched several more keys on the screen before ipping switches on

another console. “This isn’t part of some elaborate scheme. You had a cu ,” he

said, staying completely focused on his displays. “You have a history with the Lumersians. You’re a tool in my toolbox. I may or may not need you. We’ll nd

out.”

Another rumble shook the oor beneath Tanav, though this felt di erent

from a photonic jump. It came with the groan of engines, and in the cockpit, the

Horizon pulled gradually closer. In front of them, the drones moved in

formation, individual status showing matching speeds and angles before they

began to scatter. Only seven months had passed since Tanav had lived in the original gravity

well, yet his mind seemingly buried all these details away. Seeing everything

ahead of him gradually surfaced them, like buttons pushed to activate the

elements of that life. Memories, sensations, movements, the way that massive

ships sat like city centers but smaller crafts crawled through it. And even smaller crafts—shuttles, ghters, or in this case, drones—their

ability to cut through the photonic web still came with some drag to their speed

and turns, like trying to walk through a body of water. Also, apparently, none of them were immune to the volatility of this new

well. In front of them, a cloud swirled to life, some type of photonic energy

storm bubbling until it burst out. Despite the distance, Tanav saw the storm

whip outward, a ripple rushing toward them. It clipped one of the drones,

causing the array to buckle and tear into the side of the cube. Bits of debris

scattered in every direction, though their view got interrupted by the ripple

hitting Sadler’s ship, and a violent jolt caused Tanav to lose his balance enough

that he had to brace himself—only for his hand to bounce and sting o the force

eld ahead of him. “I’m guessing you didn’t deal with that before,” Sadler said. “Only at the very end,” Tanav said as he grounded himself. “When we knew

we had to go.”

On the grid display, one of the drone slots blanked out. In front of Sadler, the

ship’s largest console display switched from operational data to a large view of

the local navigation map. It started with a bright circle in the middle, then

gradually built out with an expanding radius, icons for the Horizon and the

remaining drones sitting within textured colors representing the patches of

clouds among the well. A new line appeared to map the trajectory of the lashing ripple of energy, followed by numbers calculating something. Sadler tapped away

at his console, a frenetic energy to each action, and for the rst time since they’d

met, Tanav got the impression that things weren’t going the way Sadler wanted

—or needed. In the middle, a new icon appeared. Text oated next to it, and while the

Horizon’s icon listed its ship name and registry number, this one stated

UNIDENTIFIED CRAFT. Tanav squinted as he looked out the front window. It took him several seconds to focus against the brightness of the well, but the

details eventually registered for him. An elongated tube, all plated in shiny alloys, with propulsion units formed as

large, curved brackets on the back side. In between those sat a tall spire for

observation and elegance and nothing else. A Lexin Industries cruiser. “It’s no good,” Sadler said under his breath, and Tanav wondered if Neera

ever heard him utter similar words when they tackled the synth generator

together, or if he shielded his frustrations from someone he respected. He

turned to Tanav, studying him much longer than expected. “I called you an asset

before. Your experience in the well is just that. Why are my drones unable to

detect photonic energy to mine?”

“Well, the problem is…” Tanav said, letting a pause draw out. “One, I’m not a

scientist. Two, we didn’t try mining the gravity well before.”

“But you sourced energy from it. You had to.” Now he stood up, arms folded

and eyes glaring. “Neera oversaw the journey back to Cluster space. That energy

came from somewhere.”

“You’re missing a key point.” Though he certainly didn’t match Sadler’s

intensity, Tanav tried his best to mirror that. “They gave us that energy. They

wanted to help us.”

“They gave it to you…” Sadler broke his gaze, nodding as he talked through

his thoughts. “They gave you the energy that worked. It’s not random. It’s not

what is just sitting here in space. Just like on Earth, how there’s a di erence

between the combustibility of elements and natural resources.” Sadler rattled o

a rolling theory of ideas, and Tanav realized that Neera worked thoughts out this

way too. Tanav didn’t know if Sadler’s friendship with Neera was authentic in any way, but they certainly thought similarly. Sadler nished, a st now up

against his lips as his eyes narrowed. “They know how to identify it. They know

what to do with it. There must be stable pockets to mine.” His hands planted on

the cockpit console as he stared at the map of local space. “Sure would be nice if

the Lumersians could just tell us where these pockets are. You’ve talked with

them before. Maybe we should try reaching out?”

Before Tanav could answer, a bubble of white surrounded the Horizon for a

ash—just like the teleportation cocoon. Bright pink energy danced over the

ship, crawling up and down it before the whole thing became a single intense

ball of bright. With a ash, the Horizon was gone. He put it together: teleportation, photonic jumps, all of it was the same

thing, just at scale. Despite Sadler standing next to him, Tanav was very much alone. Caught

somewhere between Demi’s universe and his own. Leaving the gravity well

didn’t feel this way, even when neighboring ships imploded and the Horizon

shook. The only time he probably felt this way was that moment onstage on

board the Crystal Dreams. This marked a stark contrast, a void compared to the

chaos and screams of back then. Tanav quelled the growing panic and forced himself to look at the map, now

without the Horizon’s icon. But his eyes tracked to the other ship, the

UNIDENTIFIED CRAFT still planted next to it. Sadler followed his look, then

his eyebrows raised. “You see that too. That’s your family, right?

You wanted to

make it back home?” Sadler tapped on a di erent window to activate a scan,

bringing a detailed mock-up of the ship. The schematics detailed every curve and ridge of the vessel, to con rm his

hunch. No one else in the universe—in any universe—would prioritize

aesthetics as much as a Lexin craft. “I’ll level with you.” Sadler sighed with arms stretched overhead, a casualness

that felt more disconcerting than it should have. “The Lumersians claim to

know how to open a portal to your home universe. The sooner I get what I need,

the sooner I can try to make that happen. In fact, I could even hail that ship

now. Your parents are on board, aren’t they?

We could all work together.” Another rumble rolled through the ship, this time causing the ship’s power

systems to ash. “I heard you don’t quite get along with them.” Where did

Sadler get that information?

Sadler must have dug deep on him and likely the

rest of the Horizon crew. Except, with the Horizon gone, maybe none of that

mattered and all Tanav could do was consider surviving this. “How tting that

after all these years, all the grief they gave you, you could blaze in to rescue them

from another universe. So if there was ever a time to help me out, it would be

now. Think about that.” The ripple red away, a blend of light and dark, and

this one brushed by the Lexin ship. Even from this distance, Tanav saw it tilt in

distress. “Before their ship implodes.”

CHAPTER 40

NEERA

They had spent months and months trying to get the photonic engine to work. And when it nally, nally worked, Neera only had minutes to stop it. In the end, he wasn’t quite fast enough, and the Horizon jumped. Part of the solution was down to dumb luck—the docking bay was on the

same deck as the science lab, and the science lab had secondary access to all ship

systems. Thus, accessing the ship’s operational controls typically found on

consoles within engineering, well…

It took the long way around, but he was almost there. He’d established

extended access to four of the seven major operational systems before the entire

ship rattled. They’d completed the journey to the Lumersian well. Everything settled. One spare co ee mug, probably left out by Demi at some

point over the past day, tilted back and forth until eventually coming to a calm

rest. As silence returned, Neera realized he’d been so focused on connecting

systems and controls on the far terminal that he’d missed the complete change of

view from the wall display’s live external feed. It took the re ection o the

smaller terminal’s screen for it all to register—instead of the empty black of space

leaving the screen’s details clear and distinct, a pink hue tinted the display. Neera stepped forward, focusing on the live feed. They were there. Yet, looking into the swirling pink cloud, Neera nally

understood what humans meant when they said they had a sinking feeling. He understood the commitment to this mission. He knew what was

involved, how the engineering would unfold, and what the goal was. He still

would rather have undergone this journey to ensure a life of science. Yet seeing

the endless walls of the gravity well, however, proved equally overwhelming and

jarring. The Horizon sat absolutely still within the gravity well. Propulsion would

not work. FTL would not work. The logic of engineering and chain of

command, that would not work here. The gravity well looked o .

As he took it in, Neera questioned whether the

strangeness came from the colors detected by his compound vision and natural

sensitivity to contrasting light. When his eyes adjusted, the gradations of color

within the well stood out—clouds of dark and peaks of red weaving in and out

of the blank brightness. Demi’s voice interrupted his observations, bringing him back to the moment. And while her words o ered the ship’s standard transmission protocol of sender

and receiver, it was Demi’s tone that snapped him out of his stupor. A waver, a

crack—a desperation. “There’s a force eld blocking o engineering,” Demi said. He could

practically see her tightened jaw muscles and furrowed brow. “You need to take

it down now. We’ve got…” She paused brie y, Neera’s keen hearing picking up a

slight tremble. “Twenty-eight minutes.”

Neera was curious about what bothered Demi, but he knew an order when

he heard it. His curiosity dispersed, every action zeroing in on xing the

problems ahead in as e cient a way as possible. He had two choices: He could go to engineering and try to take down

whatever barrier Sadler erected, the same way he did with the ESFs on this deck. That carried many unknowns. With time ticking away, the smarter, better

chance came from taking down ESFs on a systemic level. That meant nishing

the extension of the nal three engineering systems to the science lab. “Control of engineering is being rerouted to my location,” Neera said as he

tapped access and override codes. The next few minutes passed with Demi

staying silent while Neera gave running updates. She only spoke to announce

time remaining as he worked a makeshift operations console. “System control is becoming active,” he said. “I am being granted operational access of key systems. The force elds set up by Sadler are being taken down.”

“I see it,” Demi said. “We’re through. Get down here.”

Neera took o .

His long legs pounded, echoing footsteps across the hall. Demi continued her countdown over comms, minute-by-minute updates as he

waited for the elevator, rode it down to the engine deck, and burst through the

double doors. Awaiting him was the most unexplainable of sights: photonic energy, yes, but

contained in a serial chain of units, all of them glowing at about half intensity

and hooked up to the engine’s intake. And that chamber seemed di erent

somehow. Neera couldn’t quite pinpoint it. It might have been a trick of the

room’s lighting or even the stress of the situation. “A di erence seems to exist with the intake chamber.”

Demi spun on her heel and approached Neera. “We’ll get to that later. You

must stop the engine. Like, right now. Before it goes again.”

He sti ed the impulses to provide the detailed options that could guide a

sound decision, and instead assessed what lay ahead:

Eight containment units sat in a straight line, cables chaining them together,

and it seemed reasonable that they moved systemically into the intake. Some sat

with a low glow, and the front one was completely empty. The Horizon powered

its way to the gravity well, but the state of the remaining synth showed that

Sadler had a clear plan to go beyond that. Some of it still sat within the intake

engine, ready to re o .

And that rst, empty one: Neera recognized the unit’s additional sensors and

connection ports. He would sort out his feelings on that later. Eleven minutes and twenty-six seconds remained. The thing was, photonic energy didn’t naturally exist in this space. That was

the whole reason why they needed containment units. It had to go somewhere—

either in specialized storage or processed by the engine to fold back into

photonic space. Turning the engine off before this jump completed?

Stopping power ow to

the whole system would cause a catastrophic failure, the kind of which Neera wasn’t prepared to explore. With the containment units tied to the intake,

severing the connection would create potentially disastrous volatility. He identi ed two safe options. One: He could siphon energy from the engine’s intake backward and ll up

the containment units. With that empty, the energy would be stable—safe. And

nothing would happen to the engine. Problem was, it would take time—most

likely, more than the time remaining on the countdown clock. Any leftover

energy would process and burn o , with the risk that that would take the

Horizon across into however many jump points necessary to nish. Two: He could push the remaining energy forward into the intake chamber. That would burn things o , just like it did during diagnostic cycles, with the

excess energy converted into thermal energy to dissipate into space. This was

faster than the previous option. But Sadler had locked in a jump cycle, and

they’d never tried a burn-o in parallel with an actual jump cycle. And unlike the rst option, such a process would consume all of their synth. They’d be stranded until they could generate more, and even then, Neera wasn’t

sure if he could replicate Sadler’s techniques to get the engine going. Safer, worse results. Or riskier, yet better results. Neera lived pretty much his whole life playing it safe and achieving worse

results. Now seemed like as good a time as any to break that streak. He moved swiftly and precisely, rst commencing the burn-o process, then

recalibrating the intake sequence to simply move it faster. Several minutes passed,

Neera danced from control to control, unit to unit, adjusting settings and

tapping con rmations until no tasks remained. On the engine’s main console, one side ticked down to the inevitable jump. The other showed an empty bar lling up as photonic energy burned o .

“You’re not doing anything,” Demi said quietly as the timer ipped to four

minutes remaining. “There is nothing to be done.” Neera pointed to the burn-o bar. “If this one

nishes before the other one, then I believe we will remain here.”

“And then we can reach out to the Lumersians.” Demi’s shoulders fell, like

whatever kept them tense and propped up couldn’t pull them anymore. “I know

I can be tough. And cold. Thank you for being there for me. Ever since we met.”

“This life of science has been made possible by you. I am not ready to give it

up,” Neera said. Such weight in his words, speaking with an authentic emotion

so rare for his people. “Demi?”

“Yes, Neera?”

“Your trust in me is appreciated.” Suddenly, Neera’s ngers twitched, itching

to fix something. Instead, he forced himself to remain still and pushed the words

out. “There were several times in recent weeks when I disagreed with you. I feel

you should know that.”

Neera braced himself for frustration, some scolding, either in a professional

capacity or a personal one. Perhaps both. Demi, however, reacted in the most

unexpected way. She laughed. “Well,” she nally said, “why didn’t you say anything?”

No good answer formed in Neera’s mind. Seconds ticked by, and they would

soon need to track the energy burn-o .

Neera decided on the most obvious

truth. “I have said something now.”

“You should do it more.” She put a hand on his tall shoulder. “You make

good decisions. They’re worthy of being heard.”

She had talked about such a thing before. Their circumstance necessitated

both of them to make more decisions, but he realized that she spoke of

something greater. He saw the role of rst o cer framed by position and rank. Her words here built a simpler idea:

All this time, Demi trusted him more than he trusted himself. Yet she was

referencing evidence, data points that proved he could do just that. Numbers. Everything always came down to numbers. And numbers never

lied. They waited and watched together, Demi and Neera silently awaiting the

outcome of two processes involving the same mystery energy. Without it, Neera

would not be in this universe. Without it, Demi might have moved on to

another ship. Without it, they never would have become friends. This substance, an energy too raw and immaterial to naturally exist in

physical space, carried the power to steal their destinies and forge another one. And now it had that chance again. The density of the intake’s pink glow shifted between dissipating and

solidifying, a push-pull combination as the ship fought between leaving and

staying. However, the latter seemed to be winning. The glow began withering,

its complete, shiny, thick soup of bright breaking down into gradual opacity. It was working. Clearer and clearer, sometimes stepping back but then surging forward, the

remaining energy became more and more transparent. On-screen, the numbers

backed it up, the burn-o rate staying at a steady high velocity while the synth

nished feeding in. But as the timer hit the one-minute mark, Neera knew. With thirty seconds

left, Demi seemed to know too. The burn-o wouldn’t nish in time. A hand came to her mouth, an obvious resignation to what lay ahead:

They were going to jump. How many convergence points, how far away from

here, that remained to be seen. Even still, a single jump put weeks away from this

point via FTL—and still an impossible distance back to Cluster space. “I’m sorry, Captain,” Neera said, an intentional use of both syntax and title. The numbers ticked down. Fifteen seconds left. Then ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Neera’s face dropped, taking his eyes o the numbers for a moment. It didn’t

matter. Whatever came next would require a solution of some sort, even with

the despair gnawing away at him. Two. One. The photonic engine hummed to life, and Neera looked to see how much

energy remained in the intake chamber. His mind immediately tried to calculate

an estimate, but it didn’t matter. The cycle nished, the Horizon shook, and

they jumped to the rst convergence point. The engine ramped up again, all

hums rising in frequency and speed, but not enough remained, leading to a

natural power-down sequence. Demi and Neera stared at the impossible problem in front of them. “When Sadler teleported away,” she said slowly, “I told myself that I didn’t

have time to mourn Chuck. Things needed to be done. We had to stop the

engine.” She pointed at the nearly empty, colorless intake chamber, now only a

thin haze of purple and pink remaining in it. “I guess we have time now. Time to

mourn. Time to tell you what Sadler is planning. Time to tell you what the hell

happened here. To Tanav.” She pointed again, this time turning her nger to the

empty containment unit sitting at the front of the line, the only one with

additional modules lining its frame. “To Chuck.”

Demi collapsed on the hard oor, hands planted out behind her. And though

she bore the uniform of a GCF captain, she looked as ordinary and tired as

Neera had ever seen. Neera knelt down next to her and stared at the remaining photonic energy, a

veil of color awaiting… something. Except…

Neera’s head tilted and eyes focused. His compound vision picked up details

and shifts that humans couldn’t detect, and he focused, making sure that this

wasn’t just a tint from the display’s changing colors. Because he was fairly certain that the veil of color grew stronger. More solid. And more purple. A purple, like Chuck’s spark. “The intake chamber was injected with Chuck’s spark?”

Demi gave a quiet “mmm-hmmm” with a nod. Organic mixed with synthetic. The very last bit of Chuck’s organic body,

living in the intake chamber mixed with volume after volume of synth. So much remained a mystery about photonic energy. But now one of those

mysteries appeared to be resolving itself. Neera got back on his feet, then stepped

toward the intake, getting close enough that his face remained inches away. Had

the chamber been full, the intensity of the glow might have proved blinding. But

here, the view o ered a level of detail that con rmed his hunch. It was growing

more dense. And the color was changing. Not quite the pink standard photonic

energy, and not the purple of Chuck’s spark, but a hue in between. Demi’s human eyes must have caught it too. “That’s not…” She moved to

Neera’s side. The two of them watched as this newfound energy, whatever it

was, coalesced. Then it jumped, collapsing into a thin beam that moved through

connected cables until emerging in the rst containment unit in the chain. Chuck’s containment unit. The beam hit the center of the unit, and soon after, the rest of it began

coiling around, row after row growing until a bright square oated whole and

independent within it. The corner of the unit’s frame lit up with status

indicators all showing full activity. When it nished, the vocabulator popped, as

if it cleared its throat. And then a voice spoke:

“One plus one equals two.”

Demi had told Neera that Chuck’s voice spoke before—those words, and

only those words. Neera’s mind raced, a scienti c list of what might possibly

trigger such an event. Energy combined with latent memory, something along

those lines?

But then the voice spoke again, and this time, no doubt remained: “Hello,

Demi. I’ve missed you.”

The words came with the clear diction of intentional thought. Demi pulled

forward at it, her weight angled ahead, like a single thread held her from

breaking away. Except no other words came. As they stared, the plane of energy remained, but the unit’s status lights went

out. CHAPTER 41

DEMI

Before Neera had arrived, Demi did a very un-Demi thing, a decision that she

only could make in isolation. She pulled up a live outside feed from the ship’s bow camera. Any external

view would have worked, because it was everywhere:

The gravity well. The place that had taken so much from her. Ten years of her life. So many of

her crew. Where she’d lost Chuck, her career, her innocence, all traded for a

future ruined by a war she never chose. She only stared at the feed for ten, maybe twenty seconds. But every single

pixel in the image pierced into her bones. This wasn’t just the massive silent

blanket of glowing pink from the years they’d forged a community out of

nothing. The vision in front of her lled with deep red lashing tendrils and

glowing bursts of blood clouds, just like the last few months when the well

imploded ship upon ship. Even though the Horizon sat static, the chaos felt like

it beckoned her back. She sat with that feeling, stewing in it, like it formed the

soul and bones of who she really was, a view accessible only from the inside. Then Neera arrived and she became Captain Demora Kim again. Now she focused, telling herself to ignore that voice. She repeated that to

herself over and over. She could not get lost in those possibilities, not when the

navigation map on the far wall showed that they’d made one photonic jump

away from the Lumersian well. “Demi,” Neera said. “That—”

“I need you to get us back to the well. Immediately.” She pointed to the synth

generator. “Sadler said the synth wouldn’t do it alone. That it lacked the density. We need to nd a way to make it work.”

Neera faced the synth generator. But then he turned in the opposite angle at

Chuck. No, not Chuck—she wouldn’t dare speak that name right now. Whatever oated within the containment unit, whatever temporarily activated

the vocabulator, whatever conjured up those words, that wouldn’t solve their

current problems. Neera’s whole body tremored, like he was caught between

what to do, where to go. “Get us moving.” Demi spun, now with her back to Neera, the engine, the

glowing plane of energy—all of it. “That’s our priority.”

The thrum of the synth generator wove through the space, and it barely

registered that Neera didn’t move. Instead, Demi fought the mounting anxiety

clawing away inside her, and all she really wanted was to sit down and hug her

dog right now. “Demi,” he said purposefully, “I need you to listen to me. “I am disagreeing with you.”

Demi caught him exing his long ngers, stretching them out before curling

them to a st and then back again. “I should examine Chuck,” he said. The mere mention of the name sent a ripple through her entire body, and she

focused on the navigation map. One jump. They were one jump away. They still had FTL. Demi considered the distance—a rough estimate of

between three or four weeks would cover the trip. Thoughts pulsed through her

mind, weighing the consequences of burning o that much time versus staying

at this convergence point, hoping to bring the engine online. Several electronic chimes rang out behind her. She didn’t move though, and

knowing Neera, this was not a gesture done to bait or motivate her. Neera would

do what he always did: gather information and present it. Several seconds later, Neera spoke. “This is data you should see.”

Demi’s eyes opened and the world snapped back into view. She balanced

herself, the weight rm between her heels and her toes, and she turned to nd

Neera holding a tablet. With a lot of numbers. Two of the same multidigit number, then a whole lot

of di erent numbers. “I hope you’re not expecting me to memorize that,” Demi said. Neera was locked in. She knew that because he completely ignored the quip. “The photonic wavelengths of that energy plane in the containment cube are

listed here.” He pointed to the last number on the screen, then the bottom left

corner of the glowing square. “Distance from the center is how I have taken the

readings.” He moved up, number by number, each correspondingly getting

closer from the farthest corner to the center. “The center point is this value,” he

said, tapping the second number on the screen. Which was identical to the number above it. “What’s the rst value?”

“The photonic wavelength of Chuck’s spark is that number.”

Neera really could have said anything because his look mattered more, his

expression bypassing the captain-minded, mission-oriented defenses she knew

she always put up. “What does,” she paused, her voice dry. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What does that mean?”

“The spark at the center of the plane is still Chuck. Yet a new type of

existence seems to have formed.” Neera stepped over to the synth generator and

peered at its con guration module, graphs and numbers glowing in its display. “A new possibility is happening outside of expectations. As a scientist, it would

be foolish to ignore”—he took a breath and looked at her—“possibilities.”

The word sank in, more than she would normally allow herself in this

moment. Neera awaited an answer, his pause a little di erent than usual. Rather

than deference, she recognized that the emptiness was an act of caring. “What do you suggest?” she nally asked, and she realized that her continued

questioning was almost like a challenge, throwing a gauntlet to fate and testing

to see if she would lose everything again. “Every incident of Chuck’s voice was precipitated by a photonic jump.”

Demi considered the di erent moments, and while so much had happened

since the rst time, Neera was right. He parsed things together, his voice gaining

con dence toward a conclusion. “Di erent laws of physics apply to the Lumersians compared to corporeal

beings such as you or I. There may be a di erence in their notion of death. Deactivation may be the more appropriate de nition of being. The engine used

Chuck’s spark, but it did not disappear completely.” Neera paused as he pulled

up a graph of data on his tablet. “My hypothesis has evolved: The use of Chuck’s

spark in combination with synth may have introduced a new variable into the

Lumersian way of being. The spark, the synth, the engine’s combustible

environment, I am considering the di erent options presented by that

combination. “Something new may have been created during this process.”

Demi looked at the glowing square, and her mind ashed to the sequence of

frequencies Neera had just shown—and suddenly, things didn’t seem as

impossible as before. “Chuck had often talked about how his life was supposed to exist for a

speci c function across a speci c time,” Demi said. “And lucky him, meeting me

changed that.”

“Destinies tend to be altered by meeting you,” Neera said, the corners of his

wide mouth angling into a grin. He peered at the silent square of glowing energy. “Something remarkable may be within our grasp if we decide to explore it.”

This wasn’t just hope. It made sense, at least with what little they understood

of Lumersian existence. But enough sense that Demi’s internal balance turned,

her entire decision-making process tilting in ways she wouldn’t have ever

considered before. Finally, a logical path to overcome the impossible, yet she

knew—she knew—the danger of the emotions tied into that. And if she let them surface, they may never go back. Terrible things, those

emotions, always getting in the way of work. She chose a very measured question as a response, a completely

noncommittal way of committing. “You have an experiment in mind?”

Neera nodded. “The result may provide a way to return the engine to full

acting status.”

“How much time do you need?”

Neera loaded up another set of numbers and graphs, and once more, Demi

didn’t bother to take in the details. “My best instinct is to project several hours for this experiment.”

“And the spark,” she said, purposefully leaving Chuck’s name out of it. “Will

mixing it with synth do anything more to it?” More questions arrived, captain

instinct returning to her sensibilities. “The Lumersians still think they need it.”

“No signs of deterioration from the spark at the center are presented within

the wavelength data. As with other photonic energy, existence is simply its state.”

Neera looked down at the tablet, though he accessed further information. In

fact, Demi guessed that maybe he didn’t even read it. He just used the gesture to

mask the fact that he was thinking about something. So he did learn from her after all. “Perhaps that span is a good time for you to recuperate and assess larger

situations.” Neera o ered a rare gesture, his mouth curling upward in as close to

a smirk as a Dywen could make. “Indy’s hunger probably needs to be addressed. A reasonable reminder at this time would be that the development of the

photonic engine was a joint venture between myself and Chuck. Should this

work in any capacity, our goals with the engine would likely be supported.”

Neera dressed up his intentions with layers of words, enough that it took a

little too long for Demi to realize what he meant. “You’re telling me to get the

hell out and take a nap.”

“And to feed your dog.”

Finally— nally—Demi let herself exhale completely enough to transform

her entire sense of being. “It’s not easy for me to let this go.”

“I know. My friend.”

“Well then,” she said, giving Neera one nal pat on the shoulder. “Take us

there.”

CHAPTER 42

TANAV

In the past few hours, Tanav did as Demi would: pace back and forth. Except in

his case, he only had about ten feet of space to do it. Since Tanav got locked in

the room, Sadler mostly left him alone to focus on whatever he was doing with

his drones. Because based on the dashboard display, they sure weren’t mining—

everything stayed at 0 percent of mining capacity. Sadler did, however, update

the label on the navigation display from UNIDENTIFIED CRAFT to Lexin

Industries. His body language showed a visible frustration, the increasing intensity of his

actions giving it away. Switches, buttons, screen icons, everything pressed or

ipped or tapped harder, sometimes with sighs and grunts. He even set aside the

teleportation module to grab a gun from a small locker underneath the console,

like the very presence of a deadly weapon helped him channel his frustrations. Tanav at least had an educated guess at that move. That tease about the Lexin

ship, it was an attempt to draw out Tanav’s own experiences in communicating

with the Lumersians. But Sadler didn’t want to rely on him. Relying on him

created a liability, and Sadler seemed to want as little of that as possible. Tanav

made the blanket assumption that all Oversight agents were kind of loner jerks

in that fashion, and that probably suited them best for the job. Finally, Sadler tried something di erent after so many minutes of getting

nothing out of scans. He punched an unused button on the console, and the

display switched to a spectrum of communications frequencies—and a status of

Communications Channel Active. “This is Galactic Cluster Fleet spacecraft Safe Passage. We have come to

communicate with the Lumersian species on behalf of Captain Demora Kim

and the starship Horizon. Please respond.”

Demi wasn’t going to like that part. It didn’t really matter because nothing came back. And though Sadler

couldn’t gure out why, Tanav knew. And it was just like his dad had told him:

“If you’re ever going to make a mark in the galaxy, you need to learn to ask

questions that nd opportunities.”

This moment might have been just that. Problem was, Tanav didn’t know

too many of the speci cs behind communication with the Lumersians. Their

rst encounter needed time and technology—time for the di erent species to

understand how each other communicated, and technology to act as a translator

between them. Because while the Lumersians had a reasonable vocabulary of the

human language by now, it didn’t matter if they couldn’t connect to it. Sending hails wouldn’t work. They needed a message in their language. And

somehow, Sadler wasn’t getting that. Tanav turned to the cockpit and took in the di erent displays and charts—

plenty of information, plenty of data, but none of it producing what Sadler

actually wanted. Sadler’s next best thing would be someone who could achieve

that. Or at least claimed to. This was an opportunity. “I might be able to help.”

Sadler’s chair squeaked as he spun it around. His lips pursed in thin

pensiveness, and for the rst time, Tanav noticed lines of fatigue across the

operative’s face. He may have been Oversight, but even they needed sleep, or at

least the comfort of results. “You’re right.” Tanav stepped forward. “No matter what, there’s only so

much time, and there’s only one way for any of us to get out of this.” He tapped

the force eld, only for his nger to bounce o it with a shimmer of light. “Wanna drop this?

We can work together.”

“You really are new to this bit, aren’t you?” Sadler got up, arms stretching

overhead. “That’s not how hostage negotiations work. I could put you anywhere

I want.”

“I’m a hostage?

I thought we were partners.” Tanav tried to line the words

with humor, though his own nerves failed to fully land it, and his laugh came

out as a sti ed chuckle. No performer’s experience could hit that properly. He

slid his hands behind his back, ngers beginning to unlock the cu ’s clasp. “You’re free to remove that if you want.” Sadler held up the teleportation

control. “I can still target you. Especially this close. I just have less precision with

where you land. So, taking it o is probably only a good strategy if you want to

wind up in space or merged into the oor or something.”

“Actually,” he said, holding both hands up, “just scratching an itch.”

“Fair enough.” Sadler set the teleportation control on the ship’s console, then

pointed at the myriad controls and displays. “So, you’ve decided to help?”

“I might be able to. I did live here for a while, you know.”

“All right.” Sadler came face-to-face, only an invisible barrier between them. “Why can’t my drones lock onto any photonic energy for mining?

Is there

something else you’re not telling me about that?”

Tanav steeled himself with a moment to pull in any technical jargon oating

around his memories. Making it sound good was never more important. “I told

you, they gave it to us. But”—Tanav paused, trying his best to match the tone

Neera would have during an explanation—“photonic space is made up of three

things—Lumersian beings, the environment they exist in, and the raw energy

itself. We see it all as the same glowing cloud. From their perspective, they can see

the di erences between them.” He stood taller now, as if that would make for

more believability. “Look, I’m not a scientist. I’ll admit that part. But my best

guess is that you need to be able to tell those apart.”

“And you can do that?”

“Neera would probably know.” Tanav wasn’t quite sure why his gut told him

to say that. Everything told him that Sadler moved strategically, but his

friendship with Neera seemed genuine, or as genuine as it could be. If nothing

else, such a statement might chip away at Sadler’s equilibrium. “I could, though,

sing you a song about it.” That crack didn’t elicit a laugh, so humor wouldn’t

work right now. “You know one type of energy—synth. Synth was based on the

energy given to us to escape the well. You know that whatever you’re scanning

right now isn’t right. If you have any data on Chuck, that’s another form. It’s like, if you wanted to understand how a song was composed, you take away each

track—the vocals, the drums, each instrument,” he said, peeling o a nger for

each. “Now, I could tell you how to do that with a song. I can’t help you on the

science part.”

Sadler nally moved, rst craning his neck to look out the window, then

glancing down at the area map. Then he grabbed the teleportation control. Sadler stared at it, as if he looked hard enough, the microcosm of photonic

tech in the device might unlock the secrets of the entire well. His nger icked

the side switch, igniting several con rming chimes and lights. Tanav braced himself for the inevitable cocoon and reminded himself not to

try jokes with secret agents who had clearly snapped and fell crooked. Yet, instead of any ashes of light, Sadler turned and opened up an interface

on the side of the cockpit console. He plugged the device in before cycling

through various options on the holographic settings that popped up. “Neera did say that before. I’d just focused so much on our tech that I didn’t

think about it,” he said. “Thank you. Some of the data collected during

teleportation processes may help the system identify the di erences between

those energy states. Let’s see what this recalibration process uncovers.”

Tanav tried not to let his relief be too obvious. And through all of it, he told

himself that Sadler viewed him as an asset—something to be discarded, sure, but

also something with knowledge. “It might just be easier to ask the Lumersians.”

Sadler’s sigh lled the cockpit, though it quickly shifted as he realized that

Tanav’s suggestion was serious. “I’ve tried. They’re not very talky.”

Tanav realized the opening created by Sadler’s fatal aw: He really was an

engineer through and through, despite his role as an operative. That made

Tanav’s experience and knowledge a point of barter in exchange for a deeper in. “They exist in light. That is how you have to hail them. They don’t understand

sound waves, at least not without translation.”

“Light.” Sadler’s head angled at this explanation. “The records showed that

they boarded the Horizon.”

“That’s right. Audio hails are as e ective as, I don’t know…” Tanav searched

for the right analogy, something that had nothing to do with light. “They don’t

understand because it doesn’t even exist in their realm.” He looked out the

cockpit as much as he could. “We built up a very basic understanding through

the use of numbers. Once we took that rst step, that was when we could upload

things like dictionaries and encyclopedias, and eventually their containment

suits had translation tools for them.”

“You remember how to reach out to them?”

Tanav weighed how much to reveal—too much and he might give away his

leverage. Not enough and he’d be deemed useless, or worse, disposable. “Neera

made a system. He called it ‘hexadecimal,’ though that oversimpli es it a bit. It’s

very… mathy.”

“I know what hexadecimal is.” Sadler’s ngers punched against the console

before a ash of numbers came up. “So, what, do you just spell out ‘hello’?”

“In a way.” Sadler really didn’t know. He really didn’t read up on the rst-

contact details. All that technology consumed him and blinded him to the fact

that two civilizations needed to overcome a language barrier. “You want to know

how we established communication, let down this barrier and give me access.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to bargain.” Sadler took a very long, very

purposeful, very unsubtle look at the teleportation module. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s one thing to understand the concept. It’s another to know how to

actually do it. Timing is kind of a factor.” Which wasn’t necessarily true, though

Sadler had no way to disprove that. At this point, he just had to commit to the

semi-truths he said. “Or,” Tanav said with a larger-than-needed sigh, “you can

try one of your mining drones again. You’ve got, what, seven left?

Go ahead, give

it another shot while I take a nap.”

Sadler kept staring at Tanav, a wide-eyed glare probably meant to intimidate. But the fact that he didn’t just send Tanav out into space meant that things

gradually moved in Tanav’s favor. Without a word, Tanav turned and lay down

on the uncomfortable metal bench. About a minute passed in total silence before Tanav heard the sounds of

buttons tapping. He braced himself. Several clicks came from the doorway, followed by the fading hum of an

electrical surge as the force eld dropped. “All right,” Sadler said. “You’re up.”

CHAPTER 43

DEMI

“Several hours” proved to be the right estimate. Two hours and thirty-eight

minutes, to be precise. Demi fully acknowledged that she counted. Instead of

resting, she paced. And while she sometimes paced to clear her mind, this action

was designed to accelerate solutions. Because she had failed Tanav. He’d found a way back onto the Horizon, only

to get back in Sadler’s clutches. There had to be something she could do. Logically, she knew that everything depended on the engine, which meant it

depended on what Neera could accomplish. Her brain refused to accept this,

instead stewing on all the ways she’d failed people over the past weeks. So many

things fell out of her control, yet ideas churned in her, like if she could come up

with the most unlikely, most magical solution, she could bring everything back

through her own force of will. It wasn’t that simple, though. So she continued pacing, feeling the carpeted

oor beneath her bare feet as she moved back and forth, occasionally looking out

the dome window long enough for dim dots to become bright stars against a

canvas of black. Despite the emptiness, the black made it feel safe to look outside. She wasn’t

sure if she’d able to do so when they got back to the well. “Neera to Kim. We are ready.”

The time had come. No brilliant solution came for Tanav or anything else she

wanted to undo, which meant that it was all up to Neera. Demi took a moment

to gather herself, tugging slowly on the seal of her o cer boots, a small piece of the GCF uniform that sometimes acted as the single di erence for her mind to

shift between acting in an o cial capacity or just being Demi. She made a conscious choice to be somewhere in between. She grabbed

Indy’s lead from the small end table and called the greyhound over. “Big stretch,” she said as Indy set her front paws out and leaned so hard into

the move she trembled. The dog shook her whole body, her black tail whipping

against the side of the wall like it didn’t matter. Demi noted Neera’s surprise the instant she appeared. It wasn’t everyday that

a dog visited restricted areas. Indy noticed too, immediately pulling in di erent

directions to sni , which probably wasn’t a good idea at the heart of the ship’s

propulsion. “FTL is not powered by kibble—” she started to say, until a new

sight caught her attention. The containment unit—Chuck’s containment unit—was standing. Two legs

anked by two arms, though a mess of cables still tied into the frame’s left and

top connectors. Neera must have caught Demi’s hesitation, and he stood up

from the synth generator’s main console. “Restorative actions seemed prudent,” he said, nodding to the mechanical

limbs, “should this experiment be successful.”

The FTL engine groaned and depressurized before mechanisms clicked and

locked into place—a standard maintenance cycle that came every four hours for

the massive propulsion system. Indy, however, had never witnessed it before, and

the whole thing caused her left ear to stick straight up with curiosity at the

newest of new things. Demi supposed she marveled at that too. The idea that she might actually

have a future of some sort proved to be quite the novel concept. As if Indy could sense the change within her, the dog stopped pulling to sni

all the strange scents about and simply leaned against Demi’s thigh. “Some thoughts have stayed with me as I have prepared this,” Neera said. Next to him, the generator’s console noted a status of maximum capacity. “We

use synthetic chemicals and parts to heal us. The idea of synthetic photons never

occurred to the Lumersians. The concept of natural photons and synthetic

photons intertwining is beyond impossible from their perspective for them. Which means its outcome is unknown.” Neera tapped the edge of the synth

control screen. “On your order, Captain.”

Demi put her hand on Indy’s broad shoulder, feeling the soft fur beneath her

palm. “Okay,” she whispered. In between all of the graphs and numbers on the synth’s control panel, one

single button ashed on the digital display, the word EXPORT nested within a

green icon. Neera took a breath, looked at Demi and Chuck, then pressed it. Mechanisms groaned, pieces knocked and clicked, the whole thing coming to

life. The synth began draining out, the color of the generator’s storage

compartment gradually thinning. In return, the colors in Chuck’s unit

uctuated, beams of white light weaving in and out and through the square of

energy. Brilliant shades ashed and ourished, like light itself was ghting to nd

a way into every possible photonic ori ce and crevice within the energy. Then it all settled. The synth generator sat empty, only a quiet ticking noise as it cooled down

from its process. In Chuck’s unit, all of the shimmering attened into a single

consistent plane of light—brighter than before, denser than before, and a shade

more purple than before. One by one, the status lights on the upper frame of the unit ticked on:

power, processing, vocabulator, and movement control. Neera raised a scanner, diagnostic chirps and beeps studying… something. Indy let out a hu , then a high-pitched whine, as if the dog picked up on

something that they couldn’t. That was enough to make Demi believe. “Chuck,” she said with a tentative ripple through her voice. “Are you in

there?”

Neera continued scanning, the engine room continued thrumming, and

while Indy started a relaxed pant, Demi’s own breath held, waiting for what was

next. Even if that “next” turned out to be nothing. Nothing would be closure. But then Demi heard it. One very tiny, almost inaudible click. Followed by a

whir, a noise just as quiet. Her chest uttered, her stomach leapt, and all of a

sudden…

She knew. Those sounds came from the directional servos of Chuck’s sensors. Which meant that Chuck had conscious thought. Demi leaned forward, eyes focused on the row of sensors lining the top of the

frame. Though they sat protected within a metal frame, she saw re ections

dance as they moved back and forth, small cameras and microphones working

through data and technology to replicate the organic experience for Chuck. Tanav might have had a more dramatic, more appropriate way to express the

moment. Demi didn’t. Her emotions weren’t wired that way. Beneath the years

of GCF training and experience lay the pragmatism of her family line, a

commitment to near-obsessive constructiveness—but at least Demi grew

enough self-awareness to recognize it. Tears of grief, that sometimes happened. Yet relief, joy, exhilaration, she simply didn’t know how to process them. She stepped toward the containment mech, toward Chuck. As she did, a mechanized voice spoke over the din of the engine room:

“Is that your dog?

You nally got one.”

Embraces between humans, hugging dogs, even Dywens and other species, all

of those came with a softness and warmth. That didn’t exist with Chuck’s mech

body or robotic arms. But it didn’t matter; it was still the best embrace of

Demi’s life. Her cheek pressed against the upper edge of the containment unit, a

familiar cold smoothness to the spot that felt just like coming home. No. It was better than that. “She’s a very good girl,” Demi managed to get out. “Her name is Indy.”

More servos whirred as Chuck’s arms folded over Demi, pulling her in close. “I look forward to getting to know her.”

He spoke. He understood. Damn it, Chuck even hugged. He really was back. It actually worked. And Neera—Demi told herself to remember to commend him later. Because

he knew to give them space despite the mission at hand. Jokes and empathy; her

friend really had been working on his emotional capacity. Demi relaxed her hold on Chuck and pulled back, looking directly at the

small ridge where his audio and visual sensors lay. Chuck reacted in kind,

straightening up and now placing his arms atop her shoulders. “I am assuming my captain would not resurrect me just for a hug.”

There still was a mission. There was always a mission. Maybe someday there

wouldn’t be, but for now, Chuck o ered intrinsic knowledge as a Lumersian. “When you see the mess we’ve gotten into, you may wish you remained a

spark.” Duty pulled at Demi, and it won—the whole “being stranded, plus

implosion of all known realities” thing kind of gave it a cheat. But she felt the

inner resistance, a stronger and deeper kickback than usual, before she switched

back to being a GCF captain. “Neera, can you upload to Chuck?”

“That is possible.” Neera walked over to engineering’s primary console and

brought various statuses onto the display: navigation map, automated security

log, photonic engine status, and all the other things that might comprise a

mission brie ng. Or a reunion with a recently resurrected photonic boyfriend. “The good news is that we got back to Cluster space. The bad news”—she

pointed at the navigation display—“is we decided to return to the well.”

“What happened?”

War. The Withdrawal Movement. The return of the gravity well. Krishna’s

orders, Matthews’s command. Sadler. So many crew members. Lynn. And Tanav, hostage on Sadler’s ship. “A lot.” Demi tapped the side of her hip, prompting Indy to follow. “How

about you assess this data upload while my dog decides if you’re good enough

for me?”

Chuck reached out, all ngers extended, and Indy sni ed the mechanical

hand. The greyhound even gave it a little lick. CHAPTER 44

TANAV

During those early days on the Horizon, Tanav often spent his time resolving

crew tensions or greeting guests from visiting ships; interactions with the

Lumersions were far less frequent and often involved explaining why they had

customs like dinner. Of the ones he actually got to know, only Chuck showed

interest in life beyond the logistics of daily life. If it hadn’t been for Chuck’s

curiosity about music, they may have never bonded. So he wasn’t exactly an expert. But he put on his best front to act like one. “The Lumersians exist in photonic space,” he said slowly. He stared ahead,

the glowing pink clouds of the gravity well lling up the entire cockpit’s eld of

view—though for Tanav, the more helpful part of the view was Sadler’s

re ection. Tanav took in the image, trying to guess if any danger lurked as Sadler

stood behind him. “On the Horizon, we debated between ashing the ship’s

navigation lights, ring emergency ares, or concentrating low-energy weapons. Demi was very concerned about appearing hostile.”

As he spoke, his eyes scanned the various screen metrics in front of him:

power status, propulsion speed, course heading. Thankfully, the mining drones’

status remained at zero. “She also didn’t want to burn o ares. We had a limited supply. Fabrication

took time.” Now he entered bullshitting mode. Demi chose concentrated bursts

of energy, mostly because it o ered the best combination of visibility and

control. “The nav lights were a concern as well. Too dim. She wasn’t sure that

they could detect light shifts from that, especially because”—Tanav sucked in a breath and tried to remember which side was starboard or stern or whatever

those were called—“the back lights blink regularly anyways.”

“But they must recognize a GCF ship at this point,” Sadler said as he crossed

his arms. “Kim knew they sent out transmissions at each convergence point.”

Tanav wondered how much of that was revealed by Neera during their idle

conversations. So much of surveillance came from simply being friendly and

letting people unburden their own concerns. That was how Lynn did it. “Demi started cautiously. She went with the nav lights.” Tanav nodded to the

back of the ship. “And how did you know they replied?”

That part, Tanav knew. Everyone on the Horizon knew, because they all saw

it, the initial rhythmic ashes of white bursts within the glowing well, like an all-

encompassing lightning. “I think,” Tanav said, “their ability to control light

within the well is the equivalent of a human knocking on a door.”

“All right, then.” Sadler patted Tanav on the back, a gesture that might have

been equal parts threat and encouragement. “Let’s start knocking.”

It started with a ash. One ash. Then a pause. Then a second. And another pause. Finally, two ashes in succession. After that, Tanav and Sadler waited. And Tanav wondered if this would even

work, given that the Horizon used energy bursts instead of the ship’s lights. The

answer came quickly, though; about thirty seconds later, the clouds in front of

the cockpit brightened, like lightning illuminating from within. Two in

succession, then a pause, then another pair in succession, before nally nishing

with four rapid ashes. “It’s funny, music is all math. But I’m still terrible at math,” Tanav said. “I

can gure that out, though.”

“One plus one equals two. Two plus two equals four. Simple, yet similar

equations.” Sadler tapped on the thick glass protecting them from the volatile expanse. “So, we’ve established contact. How do we get them to tell us mining

coordinates?

All I need is one that works.”

Chuck never explained how the passage of time or even basic memory

worked in the photonic dimension. Teaching them about physical cause and

e ect was a gradual process. But the experience of it, whether it had felt like ten

seconds or ten thousand years since the Horizon left, he wasn’t sure. “Once we established the basics of our language, we used hex code to ash

messages to them. It wasn’t perfect, but it—”

A loud alarm interrupted, and soon several other chirps layered over it. Tanav

scanned the di erent displays across the console, but couldn’t decipher the

unfamiliar layout. He could, however, read Sadler as he approached the glass,

close enough that his breath formed a disappearing bubble of fog on it. “Oh,

you are good,” Sadler muttered before he deactivated the noises. The cockpit fell

back into the regular comfortable drudgery of occasional status chirps. Sadler

didn’t change his focus, though, and Tanav tracked his gaze to a long, slender

shape cutting through the gradients of colors and clouds. The Horizon. “You are good,” Sadler said again, this time with his ngernail tapping against

the glass. “Neera, you are one hell of an engineer.” He leaned over Tanav, his

ngers ying over the console until a table showing hex code and the standard

alphabet appeared. “Start communicating,” Sadler ordered. “I need

coordinates.”

“I’m not sure how easy that will be.” That was an honest assessment, no

stalling required. Not only did the Lumersians need to communicate, they had

to understand the type of energy required. More importantly, why. But built

into that, Tanav saw the opportunity to intervene to lead Sadler on for as long as

possible. Because if Neera and Demi made it this far, they had to have something else

ready for this situation. Ahead of them, the clouds ared in ashes again. The ship’s computer picked

up on the patterns, enough to generate an output character by character—all of

them rammed together, without spacing or punctuation. The translation

formed, and Tanav understood it right away. Where is 910047?

Sadler grunted, clearly irritated at where the conversation was headed. “At

least they’re talking,” he said. “Tell them we need to identify energy variances. Get me coordinates.”

Tanav ashed the message using a simple toggle of the nav lights. On the

Horizon, this process automated through the ship’s computer, but Sadler didn’t

bother with the necessary software/hardware connections and Tanav didn’t

complain. This method was manual, a methodical on/o tap of hex code

numbering to identify alphabetic characters, but it also bought time. Sadler stepped into the short hallway, but instead of going into the storage

room–turned-brig, he faced the makeshift console that barely t into a side

alcove, its footprint sticking out enough to cause a tripping hazard. Sadler didn’t

catch his toe on it, but working the console meant that he took up most of the

space. Sadler also, however, got a clear view of the storage bay. Speci cally, the teleportation module set up in the corner of the space. The

very same one where Tanav took the control device that ultimately teleported

him from the Silver Lining back to the Horizon. During the chaos of their arrival in the gravity well, Sadler had other things to

worry about. Now he looked directly at the module, and from the way that

Sadler lingered on it, Tanav knew he’d caught it. Yet rather than face him or accuse him, Sadler pulled over a data tablet and

skimmed its display. He nally turned to Tanav, though his expression bore

amusement rather than fury. “I said Neera was good,” he said. “Captain Kim is

good too. Did you know she broke in here?”

She broke in?

Demi knew Sadler watched her on the Horizon. If she’d successfully raided

this ship, she would have told him in those nal few minutes leading up to their

engineering confrontation, when every single detail marked a potential

advantage. No, Demi didn’t break in. Sadler just missed that Tanav had—and if he ever

spoke to Matthews again, he’d let the commander know about his astute choices

in in ltration. Before Tanav could answer, Sadler waved a nger. “Apparently not. You look

too confused to know. She probably did it all on her own. Didn’t want to

implicate anyone else. Even the ones waiting to defect or resign. She’s a leader

that way.”

Tanav chose to stay very silent, focusing his gaze on the cockpit’s front view. He did not give away that Matthews had him plant a RSAI within the

maintenance hatch. “Clever. I bet she thinks she can teleport over here with that. And,” Sadler

said, pulling up a holographic display on his own teleportation control, “she

could have. Except I’m locking her biometrics out. And Neera’s.”

As he cycled through the teleportation system’s logs, Tanav realized a rare

opportunity had just presented itself. A window of a minute?

Maybe thirty seconds. And the more time he spent

pondering this, the shorter it would be. He needed something clear enough to

subtly warn the Lumersians, any way to slow them down until whatever

happened on the Horizon might kick in. Sadler cursed to himself, probably at the fact that the teleportation systems

showed zero signs of tampering—Tanav made a mental note that Matthews

made the right call with that. For now, a short message:

DANGER. DO NOT LISTEN

Given the di erences in vocabulary, grammar, and all the nuances of

communication, the four words o ered the best bit of on-the-spot thinking

Tanav could muster. At the very least, it would confuse the Lumersians for a

beat. “Are they?” Sadler asked. Tanav started. “What’s that?” Tanav knew what Sadler asked and why, but

playing dumb stretched a single moment into something longer. “Are they listening now?” Sadler said, an irritated bite to his words. “They’ve

stopped.”

“We’ll nd out.” Every moment that passed without a response produced

relief, though a single ash nally arrived after several minutes. Others in

succession; as the seconds ticked by, the clouds of the gravity well intensi ed. The ship’s display captured the hexadecimal numbers, displaying those in a row

up top before translated words began underneath letter by letter. Five words. Five words in response to his cautionary message, and someone like Sadler

might see it as a response about processes or logistics, Tanav read them and knew

right away that something had changed. Something was brewing on the Horizon. Neera must have connected to the

Lumersians. Only Neera and Demi would understand how that phrase carried a depth

and power over Tanav. Because they knew how, spy or not, Lynn was a part of

him—his past and his present. No other possible motive would produce this

message:

THE EXECUTION OF ALL THINGS

CHAPTER 45

CHUCK

When Chuck rst encountered Demi, he wasn’t Chuck yet, neither in name nor

spirit. He was an it, a series of digits known as 910047 that spoke via the

translation matrix and its digitized voice. Demi would later describe their initial

conversations as similar to talking through calculations with the Horizon’s

computer. Thus, when Neera completed the mech suit and it approached the

Horizon’s mess hall, Demi’s look of surprise said a lot about the human

experience in the moment. 910047 walked into the space, sensors picking up turned heads with each

step, the intense pink of the Lumersian glow casting a tint like a halo e ect. As if

she anticipated his arrival, Demi got up and waved it over. “Glad to see you on the Horizon.” She raised a hand, and the expression on

her face read as uncertainty until she o ered a quick smile. “I guess we’re

o cially meeting now. Captain Demora Kim.”

910047 weighed various responses. “I am aware of that. We have spoken

several times already.”

Captain Kim paused enough to show that was not the appropriate response

before asking, “Sorry, social customs. Commander Neera has treated you well?”

“He has. I have started to acclimate myself to this space”—a robotic arm

waved back and forth—“and I am trying to understand both the scienti c and

cultural nuances of your dimension.”

“There’s much more to our dimension than just me, I can tell you that,”

Captain Kim said with a laugh. “I see that. But you are where I prefer to start.” Her face angled slightly and

her mouth trembled in a way that made it seem like potential muscle twitching. “I have downloaded a history of the Galactic Cluster. I am trying to consolidate

that with each individual’s purpose aboard this ship.”

“Purpose?” As if Captain Kim suddenly understood the construction of the

mech body, her eyes ipped upward, shifting from the main glowing torso to the

row of sensors atop the frame. Now they looked at each other. “My species are assigned an individual purpose and length of existence,” it

said. “When both are ful lled, a being’s energy folds back into the collective.”

Now 910047’s cameras—its eyes—broke from Demi’s and dropped to the oor

for a brief moment, a gesture that seemed strangely intuitive as a response. “My

purpose is to understand how your physical engineering can interface with our

dimension.”

Captain Kim leaned forward, an inquisitiveness in her eyes that 910047 had

not experienced in any other conversation. “Your purpose is engineering. But

while you’re here, is there anything else you’d wish to explore?”

910047 met her eyes again, and her expression, the way she propped her chin

on her hands, the way she leaned forward, it created the strangest…

The strangest feeling?

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“When I was young,” Captain Kim began, “they taught me to focus on our

natural home rather than the stars. I made maps of the forest around us, I

charted each tree and shrub—height, age, type, color. And one night, standing

in a circle of trees, I looked straight up. It was like I never noticed the stars until

that moment. All these brilliant dots against a sea of nothing. My purpose

evolved. My curiosity started at one thing and became another.” Her head had

naturally tilted up at this, and he watched her face as her lips turned, pushing her

cheeks up. “This is an entirely new state of being for you. Are you curious about

anything else?”

“I have never considered the possibility before.”

Captain Kim broadened her expression. A quick search of the historical

database of human expression showed that this particular smile translated to something called empathy. “Well, 910047, you are always welcome to join me for

a meal to discuss.” Captain Kim took a quick slurp of the noodles, which still

steamed despite the drop in temperature due to time. “And we’re not formal

aboard the Horizon. Call me Demi.”

“Demi?”

“Short for Demora.”

“Yes. That makes sense.” 910047 made note of this new human tendency for

shortening names—but was this a stylistic choice or for convenience?

The mech

body rotated on its hip joints, though its feet remained planted, pausing before

taking a step. “I have a thought, Demi. I have noticed that my identi er is

di cult for the crew to say and I am seeking a more convenient alternative.”

It took several breaths for her to grasp what he meant, though her eyebrows

raised with understanding. “You’re picking a name?”

“In human culture, the most common name on record is Charles, with a

masculine pronoun.” The entire robotic unit now stood up. “You may use that

as my identi er if it is easier.”

“I appreciate the gesture. Though,” she said with a laugh, “the more casual

form is ‘Chuck.’ Do you like that?”

910047 considered a gesture of a rmation he saw from a duo in the science

lab and held a hand up. Demi gave a quizzical look until she seemed to grasp the

cultural context. She returned the high ve. “I will use Chuck from now on,” he said. Such a strange moment, trying to interpret human behavior and words and

syntax, just as he did right now, standing on the bridge of the Horizon. However, this time, the stakes were much di erent than a rst date in the mess

hall. To make one jump back to the well, Chuck and Neera identi ed the minimal

ratio of synth with a small amount of his own self to blend with the synth. Further jumps would need di erent solutions. For this purpose, it worked—and

now their challenge evolved from engineering to communication. “The message says, ‘Danger. Do not listen,’ ” Chuck read aloud. “That’s Tanav. It has to be. Sadler wouldn’t do that,” Demi said. Her voice

sped up, a fascinating quirk of hers that popped up in unique combinations of stress and inspiration. “Nothing else has come. He must be awaiting an answer.” His visual sensors

—his eyes, for lack of a better term—focused on the holographic map projected

across the front of the bridge, seven dots representing the mining drones from

the ship. “The Lumersians must not know how to respond.”

“Chuck’s response abilities to the Lumersians require thirty more seconds

before reactivation,” Neera said, tapping through con guration settings on

Lynn’s communications console. “Good. Let’s get to them rst.” Demi put her hand on the corner of Chuck’s

metallic body, and though that part of him did not support heat or pressure

sensors, the very act of doing so impacted the balance of his legs and his stance

on a fractional level, with equally fractional compensation. He missed that sensation. In his strange existence as a lone spark without

consciousness or energy, time passed as it did for Lumersians when they were

outside of their active, aware state. Except, instead of being part of the photonic

dimension, he remained in a limbo next to Indy’s bed. The experience should

have been many things: isolating, terrifying, empty. Yet even though that time

lacked the consciousness of material beings, somewhere deep in his thoughts he

felt comfort. He supposed it had been akin to humans sleeping, yet getting some sort of

sensory feedback that wove into dreams. And in his “dreams,” his underlying

state missed being connected to Demi, in any way. “Is Lynn unavailable to assist with the transmission?” Chuck asked. The

Horizon did seem strangely empty. They rushed from engineering to the bridge

in the short period—perhaps an hour—since his revival, and outside of Chuck’s

brief reunion with Demi, every moment lled with steps, plans, options. “She is not,” Demi said, a complete shift in her tone and presentation over

three short words. “Did she remain in Cluster space?”

“The Withdrawal Movement is where Lynn gave her allegiances,” Neera said. As he did, Demi uncharacteristically looked away. The internal computer in Chuck’s body suit silently processed a query. “What is the Withdrawal Movement?

I show no references to it in my previous archives of Cluster history.”

Chuck’s question prompted Demi’s expression to change again, creases

forming deep, telling lines around her face. First, she turned to Neera. “You see?

It kinda worked. ‘Within these walls’ and all that.” Then she focused on Chuck. “The Cluster is in a state of civil war. I’m sure your downloaded archives have

many examples of that,” Demi said. “It’s a big, relentless thing. It’s invasive. It’s

taken too much from everyone. For now, we’re working around that.” Her hands

rubbed against her temples, a gesture that caught Indy’s reaction as the dog

napped in the rst o cer’s chair. “Let’s get through this, and I promise you can

ask as many questions as you want.”

“Full activity has resumed with the Lumersian communication interface.”

Neera stood up from Lynn’s station on the bridge and uncoiled a long cable. He

walked it over to Demi and plugged it into the data access port in Chuck’s side. Everything snapped into view for Chuck. In the same way technology-driven

sensors translated visual, audio, and environmental data for him, interfacing

with the Horizon’s external sensors unlocked photonic space. No metrics

appeared in his technology-powered eld of vision, and instead the connection

simply created a greater sense of awareness. He likely couldn’t describe it if Demi

had asked. Within that awareness came messages, direct from the photonic beings

dedicated to external communications. “They are trying to understand what is going on with the other ship,” Chuck

said. “You were correct. They are unsure of how to respond. Sadler’s ship has

asked for energy coordinates. He says it is necessary. However, they fear any

disruption to the gravity well will cause it to surge and expand more.”

“The act of mining may make the instability worse,” Neera said. “It caused the drone to implode,” Chuck said. That got both Demi and

Neera to turn his way. “That’s what they’re telling you?” Demi asked. Chuck gave a silent thumbs-

up before going deeper into the current situation. Her voice became quieter,

more focused, producing audio of lower-band frequencies than her typical voice. “We have the advantage. We can whisper in their ear.” She turned to Neera. “We

have to assume that Sadler is watching all communications from his ship. But we have to let Tanav know that it’s us talking to him by proxy. What could we say

does that safely?”

“Did Lynn leave any notes on cryptographic communications?” Chuck

asked. Instead of Demi answering, Neera turned, a rare brightness to his

expression as he held a nger up. “Lynn,” Neera said. “Yes, Chuck’s question brings up an interesting purpose. A phrase would be used by Lynn on occasion that made little sense to anyone

except Tanav. Recognition feels natural for him, given their relationship.” He

tapped on the console, holographic words coming letter by letter over the

bridge’s wide window. “This message should be used in their reply.”

“Of course,” Demi said. “Of course. Tell the Lumersians to start with that

and run all communications by us before responding.” She reached over, though

instead of merely tapping Chuck on the shoulder, her ngers wrapped around

his mechanical hand. Her hand’s surface temperature was 35.4 degrees Celsius. The pressure she exerted was almost indistinguishable, fractions of

measurable pascals. And this very action caused her heart rate to raise by half a beat per minute. “Very well,” Chuck said, and through the myriad of ship sensors, all he had to

do was think his next message—no ashing lights or bursts of energy required. The execution of all things. As they awaited a response, Demi cycled through ship functions. “Sadler’s

ship is small enough to get some movement through the well. Any chance

weapons could be repaired in time to disable it?

Or shoot down those drones

before they get out of range?”

Neera shook his head silently. Demi moved forward, seemingly appreciative of the economy of this newer,

evolved Neera. “So…” she said. “We’re unable to move. Our weapons are down. And it’s just the three of us on this ship.” A nger raised with each item as she

spoke it. “Are you going to ironically say that you like our odds?” Chuck asked, trying

to gauge her tone. “What?

No. These odds are terrible,” she said with a laugh. “I would like to

take it easy for once.”

“The Lumersians are passing along a new message from Tanav,” Chuck said. “ ‘Will exhaust in the propulsion maintenance shaft cause instability?’ ” The

question caused both Demi and Neera to pause. “That is an oddly speci c

question.”

“Especially for Tanav,” Demi said, standing up quick enough to cause Indy to

raise her drowsy head. “He’s not exactly a technician. It’s a clue.” The front

holographic projection changed, now displaying a schematic of Sadler’s light

freighter. Demi began to pace in front of the captain’s chair. “Okay, so the

propulsion maintenance shaft. Is anything strange there?”

The Horizon pulsed out scan after scan, and as it did, Neera activated a

highlight of the maintenance shaft underneath the freighter’s storage bay. Power,

propulsion, exhaust, all of those appeared to be running nominally. Except for a telemetry scan. That created a single orange dot highlighted in

the middle of the shaft. “That location should not have telemetry data,” Neera said. Demi examined

the hologram, nger poking into it. “What is that?” Demi asked. “Who put it there?

And what the hell does that

thing do?”

Chuck was not sure if Demi wanted all of those questions answered, though

Neera attempted to be trying. The Dywen walked to the holographic image, his

tablet showing the schematic of a small boxlike device. “Cabling and waveguide

are contained in this maintenance passage.” He raised a nger and traced it

through the oating image until he stopped at a hardware junction. “Visually, a

planted item could be obscured by the various hardware. My best guess is that

the placement was strategically made by Commander Matthews.”

“Matthews,” Demi said quietly. “He’d said he’d do some digging of his own.”

Neera turned, his large compound eyes piercing through the hologram. “Exhaust and propulsion are the primary purpose of this shaft. A power

terminal at this junction shares some sort of beacon with the ship’s primary data

processor.”

Chuck ran what details he could nd against his downloaded GCF database. “It appears to be a device called a remote secure access interface.”

“RSAI. I’ve heard of them. Never actually seen one. And a data processor,”

Demi said under her breath. “So we’ve got an RSAI plugged into a data

processor. Neera, you’ve also found a back channel into Sadler’s private

communications.” Now it was Demi’s turn to point, a quick item-by-item

gesture as she noted each detail. “And we have Tanav over there with some

measure of control. What can we do with all this?”

“The list of subsystems should be considered,” Neera said. “Propulsion,

communication, tactical. Drone control is a possibility as well, depending on

how Sadler con gured it.”

“I wonder…” Demi stopped pacing and folded her arms, eyes drawn to the

oor instead of the schematic. “There are several reasons why we’re here, and

none of them matter if we can’t stop Sadler and his mining operation rst.” She

snapped a look at Neera. “Easiest way to do that is to capture Sadler, sedate him,

and put him in the brig. Like I did with Matthews.” This caught Chuck’s

attention enough that his sensors audibly swiveled. “I’ll tell you later. I like to

think it was pretty badass.”

“Is this how you channeled your grief?” Chuck asked. “I have studied human

psychology about how emotions project to other actions.”

“It didn’t hurt.” Next to them, Neera let out a laugh—a rare event during

their previous time together. “If we could access that system, maybe I could

sneak on board. The Horizon is stuck, but one of our shuttles could dock

through that same maintenance hatch.” She pointed at both Chuck and Neera. “Neither of you would t, and I’m not sending my dog. We just need a

distraction.”

“His arrival was due to my…” Neera paused, eyes narrowing in thought. “My

willingness to nd any help in the name of science.” The tone of his gray skin

darkened, making the crevices around his eyes lodge deeper into creases. “I was

responsible for Sadler’s e ect on this ship. “I will be responsible for occupying him now.”

CHAPTER 46

NEERA

The default communications screen appeared in front of Neera, and he

wondered how many times Lynn saw this very same display over the years. Monitoring communications, attempting communications, understanding and

translating communications, it all started with this screen and the written text

on the comm station’s display:

Communication established. Awaiting response…

The nal ellipses animated, one period growing to two and then three before

repeating itself. “He’s not biting,” Demi said. She stood by the data table, arms propped on

its glowing edges while the gravity well’s glow cast her silhouette—a strategic

spot, and one Demi used before to remain hidden from incoming transmissions

at the comm station. Chuck had gone down to the science lab, where the broader range of capable

systems lay within his grasp. Demi could have gone there too, a way to assist

Chuck while monitoring the transmission remotely. Neera, however, gured

that Demi wanted proximity, to “check the vibes” as she liked to say. “Three minutes and eleven seconds have passed,” Neera said. Over the ship’s comm system, Chuck’s voice came through. “I’ve identi ed

the RSAI signal. It must have been wired directly to receive power, though data

is not connected. Tanav needs to grant access before I can use it.”

“Time for a backup plan,” Demi said, turning to look out the large bridge

window. “Anyone got—”

At that moment, the display changed in front of Neera, the words Awaiting

response now replaced with Transmission initiated just long enough to read it

before Sadler’s face appeared. Neera had talked with Sadler at many di erent hours and in many

circumstances. This marked the only time Sadler’s face carried so many lines. Fatigue, stress, or other feelings, Sadler projected some or all of those. At least for

the initial few seconds. After that, something ipped, and Sadler adjusted with

tight lips and neutral gaze. “You got control of the engine?” he asked. Neera saw his goals: keep the discussion going, distract Sadler as long as

possible, all without giving too much information away. On the display adjacent

to the transmission, a window of text appeared, real-time input from Demi and

Chuck. Demi wrote only one line: Keep him talking. Chuck’s input contained rolling updates about ongoing communication

between him, the Lumersians, and Tanav. With Tanav now ashing messages

under less scrutiny, Chuck was able to convey a simple series of directions with

the goal of activating access to the beacon. Which would have been easy for

Neera—or Demi, or Chuck, with his downloaded knowledge of ship

schematics. Tanav would require a bit of time. Chuck relayed to the Lumersians that they

should provide false mining coordinates. But that strategy might only work so

long—one more imploded drone could easily test Sadler’s patience. And unlike with the WM, Lynn wasn’t here to protect any of them. Neera reminded himself to follow Demi’s direction and keep drawing things

out. “The engine did work using a compound of synth and remainder energy. An engineering explanation might take more time than either of us would

allow,” Neera said, though it would require creative deception. Making plausible

explanations did not come easily to most Dywen. However, proximity to

humans did provide some applicable lessons. Sadler glanced to the side at Tanav. “How’s it working there?” he asked. Tanav replied about incoming coordinates, which meant at least one part of

Demi’s plan succeeded. “Look.” Sadler thumbed over at Tanav, who sat just out

of view. “Proof of life.” On the screen, Neera spied the corner of their

navigational map, including the new icon that appeared as Sadler input

coordinates. “We have a few minutes before the drone gets to its target. So you

can tell me, I’m curious how you got the engine going.”

Logic. Cause and e ect. Those were the basics of engineering—a start-to-

nish built upon a ow of decisions among variables. Surely with all his time

around the photonic engine, Neera could come up with something?

“You see?” Sadler asked. “You give it away. I know you’re stalling, Neera. Because you love talking about engineering. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to stop

you from telling me this.” Sadler leaned in, his face coming closer to the camera. “There’s something else going on in there.” From o -screen, a high-pitched

whirr came alive, one that Neera had come to recognize as the power cell of a

gun ramping up in activation. As if he wanted to really reinforce the point, Sadler held up a gun, a green

status light showing full charge and a red status light showing full lethality. “Why would you stall?” he asked as he pointed the gun at Tanav. New text popped up from Demi in the message window: Don’t look at me. Stay focused. Could Sadler be blu ng?

Neera weighed this as he replied. “I am telling the

truth. You understand how communication works in my brain.”

Sadler looked again at Tanav, whose left arm popped into view as it tapped

over the control panel. From the hint of the ship’s cockpit window, the outside

area ashed with a Lumersian message. “All right. Let’s run with that,” he said. “We’ll skip the fun part and get to

what really matters. You got the engine running again, why come here?”

Chuck now sent over a new status: RSAI activated. List of immediate system

access: propulsion, shields, communications. Secondary systems integrated: long-

range scanners, landing control, solar power capture, teleportation unit. No docking control or other mechanisms. No drone control, for that matter. Demi’s next message arrived: Can we activate the docking or maintenance

hatches by overloading a full circuit?