Leo glances at Haven, then back at me. “Good news is, there’s no asteroid,” Leo says. “We’ve been running scans for hours now—each vector scan takes a while, since it’s calling out so far into the galaxy, and each one pinged a number of potential problems. I ran the scans, and Haven zeroed in on the pings, trying to track velocity, direction, all that. Long story short, we haven’t found anything to be concerned about, nothing on a collision path.”
It’s a lot to take in—no wonder they look exhausted. “Good,” I say. “Thatisgood news. So what’s the bad news?” Surely Zesi wouldn’t have called me all the way here in the middle of the night if there were only good news. He could’ve just messagedno asteroidinstead of sending out an ASAP summons.
My eyes drift to where Zesi sits, near the message-system light. It’s no longer blinking and angry, no longer bright at all. I feel my heartbeat in my throat—a wave of anxiety rushes into the void left by my asteroid panic.
“You did it?” I ask. “You broke into the message system? What did it say?”
Zesi glances at Haven and Leo, bites absently at his lip.
“What?” It comes out more demanding than I mean it to, but I’m not exactly sorry. “What’s going on?”
Zesi takes a deep breath, meets my eyes. Barely. “Notit. Not what diditsay,” he says. “A more accurate question would be what didtheysay.They, as in theseventeenmessages we missed.”
Seventeen.
I can only imagine what this means—what they’rethinkingdown in Nashville. Seventeen messages with no answer: it’s a problem, and not just because there could be critical, time-sensitive information there.
Seventeen messages with no answer could mean they think we’re all dead. It could mean we won’t see another shipment for a good long while, since those things take time to prepare, time to launch.
“Let’s hear them,” I say.
Zesi nods, wordless. I brace myself, rest my elbows against the silver ledge with all the coffee mugs, stare out the window into the endless sea of stars.
Shapiro here, for Hamilton, the message begins. Hamiltonmeaning my mother, I’m sure, definitely not her seventeen-year-old daughter. In all the years I’ve heard my mother speak of her monthly check-in calls with Shapiro, this is the first time I’ve ever heard his voice. It’s deeper than I expected.
Please report back with your status ASAP, the message goes on.I’m sorry to leave this information on a recording, but it’s urgent, so better here than not at all. Just got word of the report you sent down about two isolated instances of contagion—I hope that’s all it’s come to, two isolated instances. I trust you’ve put the patients under quarantine already, but if not, you are under strict orders to do so immediately. We’ve taken a hard hit down here, to say the least—Roberts is dead, and similar symptoms have begun to manifest in another delivery pilot from the same division. I need to know your status—head count, supply levels. We’re locking down the base, putting ourselves under quarantine so this thing doesn’t spread. We can’t promise any future deliveries until we’re sure our pilots are in the clear, until we know more about the incubation time. It’d be bad for you to ration food, but it’d be worse for a dead pilot to crash his bird into your station. Okay. Report back immediately, Hamilton. Stars and sun—Shapiro out.
“How old was that message?” I stare at my reflection in the window, half here and half not. It’s as faded as I feel.
“February twentieth,” Zesi says. “Looks like the commander put in a call less than a minute later, so my best guess is that she never actually listened to his message.”
February 20: the day after the first symptoms began to manifest, nearly seven weeks ago. I remember it clearly, because mymother died the very next day. I can hardly believe it wasonlyseven weeks ago—so much has happened since then—and yet the sting of loss is as raw as ever, like we lost her just yesterday and have been living in one long nightmare ever since.
“Ready for the next?” Zesi asks, pulling me out of my head. “This one’s only five days old.” He presses a button and another message begins to roll.
Hamilton, this is Shapiro—things have been hell down here, and I regret that I haven’t reached out in a while. Quarantine knocked out Mission Control for weeks, along with both sectors where our backup systems are located. Lesson learned for the future, right?He laughs, but it is tight and strained with stress.Anyway, I was expecting to find a full inbox waiting for me, and the board’s pressing me for updates—you know how they get—but there’s nothing there. I know you’ve got everything under control, but it isn’t like you to just go dark, so I’m worried. Report back at once.
The messages pile on top of themselves:We’re concerned about your utter silence!andIs anyone left alive?andPlease, Linsey, let me know you’re okay.
Only my mother’s closest friends called her Linsey. Shapiro’s voice is more strained with every message, like he’s been up all night, every night, for days. He sounds exhausted. He sounds like me.
Sixteen messages roll from over three straight days of panic, according to the timestamps—but then there’s a gap afterward, two days of silence. The final message is a long one, dated yesterday morning at nine sharp, and it’s the only one whereShapiro doesn’t start with some form of my mother’s name:
If you’re hearing this message, he begins,it means I’m wrong and you’re not all dead. Hell, I hope I’m wrong. If you’re hearing this, you’re alive, and your systems have been down, or something else is preventing you from getting in touch.
The board has spent the last forty-eight hours in strategy; we’ve lost a lot of sleep over you, and for the sake of closure, we need to know your status. Since our attempts at contact have been met with silence, and our pilot division is still under quarantine, we’ve made contact with Sergeant Vonn at the exca site on Radix. He’s making preparations to send a supply crew over, but we’ve told him to hold off until we’re sure the station hasn’t been occupied, that this isn’t some hostage situation or an act of war. I’ve flagged this message as urgent—if I don’t hear back from you within the next twenty-four hours, Vonn will launch his crew in preparation to attack, rather than aid.
He pauses, clears his throat.
If you’re all dead, he says finally,this won’t be an issue. Shapiro out.
I run some fast math in my head: it’s one in the morning now, so we have just under eight hours to deal with this. Just under eight hours to figure out how to tell Shapiro about all of our dead—that if anything’s holding us hostage or declaring war, it’s grief.
It would be a simple call, if not for the Vonn piece of it—or if Shapiro were able to make decisions on his own without first getting board approval. Vonn’s system of ethics is abysmal at best, and the board’s willingness to turn a blind eyein the name of advancing the mission is equally odious. Well, the board minus Shapiro—Shapiro and my mother were consistently like-minded, always the minority no matter the vote. Shapiro, I trust.
It’s everyone else who makes me wary.
Several years back, Vonn tried to steal some of my mother’s team when he got into a bind, but she ultimately won that fight because of her team’s invaluable expertise. She needed them here, she told him. Her people were not expendable.
