Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [7]
You better hope they don’t jump. If they do, you’ll lose everyone on board.
Icy terror crawls down my spine. Please, please let them be in orbit, fighting the good fight. If they are, maybe . . .
“Do you remember the Dauntless comm code?” I ask Hit.
Regret colors her expression as she shakes her head. Damn. I don’t either. If Rose were here, she could tell me, I have no doubt. She was a good comm officer, but we lost her even before we landed on Venice Minor. I remember Doc’s grief, and sorrow steals through me. War has no regard for love.
“Maybe we can find part of the Triumph’s ship’s computer and link it to ours,” she suggests. “It should have records of past communications.”
I hope her technical expertise surpasses mine because I can’t do that. But spending as much time with Dina as she does, it’s not surprising some of the knowledge has sunk in. For all I know, she helps the mechanic with repairs between the nuzzling and softly whispered words.
“Let’s look.”
The Triumph wreckage lies nearby, and we creep toward it in silence. Together, Hit and I sort through the metal and burnt components. I try not to think of Kai; he died long ago, yet he haunts me still. I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.
At length, she produces a chunk of the computer’s trailing wires, and says, “I think this is it.”
More explosions light that bloody glow in the distance. We’re too far from ground zero to hear the booms or feel the earth shake; the Morgut are moving off now, systematically destroying the defenseless resorts and private homes. I wonder if the civilians had any real warning, or if they went from relaxing massage to dying in abject terror. There are no RDIs—Residential Defense Installations—here, no ground resistance at all, apart from Hit and me. Right now that seems like an impossibly tall order; we’re not shock troops trained in terrestrial guerilla warfare.
“Do you feel like we saved the Conglomerate only to lose everything that matters?” I ask her quietly, as we pick a path toward the downed skiff.
“Only if Dina died here,” Hit answers. “If she did, then I’ll find a way to eradicate the Morgut. I will hunt them to extinction, then delete all their records, all their writings. They will pass unremembered.” Her coldness gives me chills.
But I feel more or less the same way; I’m just less articulate about it. “If I’ve lost March, then I’ll help you.”
She doesn’t answer as she drops down through the open door to the cockpit. I come in on the other side and squat on the ceiling, watching as she snips and entwines the wires. Sparks fill the air, simmering white-hot, then dying with a hiss as connection begins.
“Got it. Cycling through old logs now.”
Through crackles of static, I listen as Rose sends the calls through. Her voice echoes from beyond the grave, more memories I cannot shake. “You have Hon from the Dauntless requesting a connection.”
“Patch him through,” March says.
Mary, how it hurts to hear his voice, even blurred with electronic interference. It makes me feel as if he’s one of my ghosts, and I can’t give in to grief before I find the answers. Hit plays the log until she successfully extrapolates the comm code, a matter of some urgency, as there’s no telling how much longer this wreck will have sufficient power to send—or receive—messages. Hit cues me with the go-ahead, and I angle my head as best I can toward the comm array. The video’s not working, but as long as we have audio, it should suffice.
“Hit and I have returned to Venice Minor. We encountered no survivors. Our ship’s disabled, but we don’t see the Dauntless amid the wreckage so we hope you survived the initial bombing. If you’re still in direct comm range, we implore you not to jump as your navigator won’t be able to interpret the signals. At best, you’ll wind up far from your intended destination.