The Word Unleashed: The Face of the Deep, #2

Prologue

October 2602

Earth Star System

Andrew Justice Markham Douglas,

In the round viewport, he thought his face looked darker and more solemn than usual. He watched the Martian Hamarkhis pilgrim ships—eleven bulky, bulbous transport craft—drive silently through the diamond-studded space between Earth and Mars. He tried to imagine what it must be like for them. Long banished from the world they loved, the Hamarkhis returned every nine years to worship at sacred sites on the Red Planet’s surface. He didn’t think he would be able to bear such a separation from his homeworld.

The ships were on their way to Mars, and King Andrew’s yacht was following roughly the same course en route to the Jovian moons for a holiday. The king leaned back into his seat and sighed. He needed the break from all the politics of the Congress of Worlds.

The king meticulously smoothed out a set of wrinkles in his black trousers and violet jacket. The rampant gold bear that was the symbol of his royal house glared up at him.

He swiveled in his seat to face the interior of his private cabin. There was a hatch at either end of the room. One led to the bridge, and the other led aft to cargo storage and the engines. Three more chairs identical to his were scattered about the cabin. A long, slender couch sat securely beneath another viewport opposite his. All were tasteful shades of brown and appointed with gold traceries. Even the tiled ceiling and deck of the cabin were polished to a glossy white and grey that glowed under soft yellow running lights spaced along the bulkheads.

The lights illuminated King Andrew’s family where they sat with him in the cabin. His wife, Queen Maria, sat on the couch, holding a delver in her hand. She wore a slim, red jumpsuit that stood out against her soft brown face. She kept a diaphanous white scarf draped about her shoulders. King Andrew appreciated how the entire ensemble shimmered as she shifted.

She shifted because the two boys seated in her lap never ceased fidgeting. Phillip and Carter were twins, both bearing the features of their father. Handsome, if he said so himself.

Carter, the more serious-faced of the two, scowled across at Andrew. Mother won’t finish the story!

I believe she said she wouldn’t finish if you two wouldn’t hold still. Andrew smiled at him. And you will listen to your mother, correct?

Yes. It was a glum answer. Carter settled back against his mother’s arms. Phillip gave him a dirty look that made Andrew squelch the urge to laugh.

Maria waggled the delver in her hand. Are you ready for me to continue?

Yes, Mother, Phillip said cheerily. Please finish ‘Marshal Jake.’

Carter’s scowl deepened.

Then settle down. Maria pressed a button along the delver’s edge. The screen lit up. She took up from where she’d stopped: Before Marshal Jake could move, he found himself surrounded by the evil Martian raiders. They outnumbered him greatly, and he knew he would have little chance to escape . . .

Andrew closed his eyes and let his imagination wander as Maria continued the story. He wondered fleetingly what it had been like, long ago, to read a story from a physical book. But that was centuries ago, before his ancestors banned printed materials in favor of maintaining an electronic information empire.

A chirp emanated from King Andrew’s pants pocket. He reached down and drew out his own delver. The message light flashed: a commnote from the yacht’s captain. White text dribbled across a black delver screen. Come to the bridge, quickly.

King Andrew’s stomach churned. He eased out of his chair. Dear, I must go see the captain for a moment.

Maria’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

Andrew smiled back. Please don’t ask. Nothing to be alarmed about.

He went out the hatch into the main corridor. He brushed his hand along the low ceiling as he walked past a trio of hatches on either side of the short, narrow walkway. Tiny blue lights cast a pale glow in the dim blue-green passageway. The hatch to the compact bridge was open. King Andrew had to hunch over a bit to step through.

The bridge had room for just three stations—the captain’s seat at the center, a navigator’s station filled with targeting and rangefinder screens to the left, and, to the right, a helmsman’s post surrounded by holographic displays. Six curved viewports, each a meter across, offered a beautiful view of starry space and the Hamarkhis pilgrim ships. A wide monitor showing the same starfield split the viewports into two groups. The screens glowed bright.

Two young men sat tense at their consoles as the captain stood at stiff attention. All three wore the violet-trimmed black uniform of Earth Navy officers. Captain Dikembe, a burly man with skin several shades richer than King Andrew’s, turned and offered a sharp salute. Perspiration beaded along his brow. Your Highness! Robbins, close the hatch.

The helmsman did so.

Andrew wondered what could possibly make the man this nervous. You called, Captain?

Your Majesty, our outbound course to the Jovian moons is taking us near the naval facilities at Trebizond Base. They send an emergency request for us to alter our course.

Why?

Something is wrong with the Hamarkhis pilgrim ships. A few have deviated from their course. Dikembe turned to his navigator and snapped his fingers. Give me the image!

The navigator complied. A trio of his screens blinked. They showed a close image of the eleven Hamarkhis vessels, just as the king saw them out his own viewport, only in more detail and at greater magnification. Five appeared to be pulling away from the rest. Their antimatter drive engines blazed a furious white, apparently accelerating.

They’re pushing 25 gravities now, Skipper! the navigator called.

What are they doing? Dikembe asked.

A map diagram flashed on a fourth screen next to the navigator. It showed five red dots following a slender red arc away from a longer green arc.

Dikembe stepped forward. He thrust a finger at the green arc. Their original course. He pointed at the dots following the red arc. They approached a cluster of blue dots, likely Realm ships defending the shipyards. The new course takes those five ships dead into Trebizond.

Andrew blinked. Into the docking facilities?

No, Your Highness, into the shipyards themselves.

But why would they . . . ?

The king watched in horror as the five Hamarkhis transports had blazed into intercept range of the ships defending Trebizond.

The defense pickets can’t maneuver at that range, Dikembe said. He pointed again to the navigator’s display at a line of blinking blue lights. You can see—

He cut himself off as tiny bright flashes appeared out the viewports. On the navigator’s display, the five pilgrim vessels did the impossible: they launched weapons.

I don’t understand, Andrew said. Those look like . . .

Nearly one hundred missiles launched in the blink of an eye—from hidden single-fire tubes, perhaps—and raced toward the Realm pickets. An instant later, the patrol ships were obliterated.

Uchafu! Dikembe swore.

The king put his hand on the back of the captain’s chair. His knees wobbled. But . . . pilgrims . . . ?

The navigator’s screen showed a closer image of Trebizond Base. The quintuplet asteroids balanced at Langrage Point Four between Earth and the sun were covered with shipyards and repair bays. The king could see the slender hulls of Earth warships clustered at Trebizond One and Two—most of the Home Fleet was laid up there for refit and repair, including two of the monstrous men-of-war, the largest warships in existence. Normally the power in the sector. Helpless now.

The Hamarkhis ships dove at the bases, engines blazing.

Captain, the navigator said, they are on direct intercept with our fleet!

Stars, King Andrew said. Isn’t there anything we can do? Warn them, at least!

They already know. There is no way to miss those Hamarkhis ships. Dikembe’s face was set in stone.

The Hamarkhis ships streaked into the midst of the laid-up fleet. Their images on the screen looked so small to King Andrew. But his mind filled in all the details of reality—the ships, the munitions, the power of the empire, plus thousands of tons of metal, composite materials, fuel, and explosives stored at Trebizond. And the men. The ships’ personnel and the repair crews.

The sheer kinetic energy of all five Hamarkhis ships slamming into Trebizond in their suicidal run wiped the repair facilities from existence. Brilliant spheres of fire flickered across the screen and out the viewport—the Home Fleet meeting a violent and sudden end.

The helmsman bent from his console and retched.

King Andrew met Dikembe’s horrified gaze. Your Highness . . . the base . . . our fleet—

King Andrew wanted to vomit too. Captain, send a distress signal to any vessels nearby. Tell them . . . He couldn’t rid himself of the horror of what he’d just seen.

Yes, Highness. Dikembe went to his console and sent the message himself. I fear it will not come in time.

Andrew stared forward. How could it?

Dikembe turned to Andrew suddenly. My king: Earth! Earth is undefended!

Andrew had already come to the same realization. This was the vilest betrayal.

We’ve got to get you out of here! Dikembe said, returning to his command chair. Preserve the government in case—

Keening alarms wailed from the navigator’s station. Bogey, Captain! the navigator yelped, bending over his console. Martian Hamarkhis design. Engine flare at bearing 180, mark 30! Coming in hot at 35 gees! Six light-seconds out.

The helmsman wiped his mouth and steadied himself on his workstation. Going evasive, Skipper.

Don’t bother. We can’t outrun them. Dikembe stabbed at the surface of his own console. Approaching ship, this is Captain Dikembe of the Royal Yacht Markham VII. Identify yourself!

The navigator’s hands flew over his console. The image of a sleek, black saucer leapt onto one of his screens. King Andrew watched as a pair of projectiles shot out from its bow. Missiles out! the navigator said.

Helm, move! Dikembe said.

The helmsman wrenched the yacht to port and accelerated. King Andrew staggered backward as the ship’s compensators struggled to keep up with the change in velocity.

Armor slammed down over the inside of the yacht’s viewports as the approaching missiles unleashed electromagnetic pulses. Control panels flickered, lights flashed off and on before finally dying. All the monitors went dead.

King Andrew’s throat closed at the silence. It meant the engines were down too. Orange emergency lights blinked on.

They mean to board. Dikembe reached under his chair and drew a hefty grey Hunsaker Double-10 pistol. He offered it butt first to King Andrew. Your Highness, I will alert the guards. Men, go with him!

The king took the gun and waved the two officers, who drew their own sidearms, after him. They ran through the bridge hatch into the corridor. It too was bathed deep orange from the emergency lights. Their boots pounded on the decking.

King Andrew burst into the private cabin to find Maria holding the boys tightly to her. They looked at him with terrified faces as something loud clanged against the hull. Strange noises emanated from the aft portion of the yacht. The king felt helpless. What had been a comfortable living space minutes ago now felt like a tomb.

Four guards in black and gold armor burst into the opposite end of the room. Each bore a slim KM-88 assault rifle. Sire! They’ve breached the hull! Get behind us!

They turned and dropped into defensive formation. One guard sealed the rear hatch and backed away. The guards sighted their weapons on the hatch. The two navy officers took up posts behind them.

Get the boys onto the bridge, Maria, and seal the hatch. King Andrew took her hand. He pulled her close and kissed her. I love you.

And I love you. She brushed a hand along his cheek. Be careful.

Captain Dikembe stomped into the room and placed himself between the hatch and the king. Take aim with care, he snapped. Don’t puncture our hull. Look for weak points in armor. Go for the heads if they don’t have helmets.

Noises and angry voices echoed behind the hatch. It sounded to Andrew as if several people were hammering on it. His dread increased when the hammering stopped. What would they do to Maria and the boys?

The hatch began to glow a bright red. The troops in front of King Andrew tensed, their armor squeaking.

Captain Dikembe crouched near him and offered a tight smile. I will guard you with my life, Your Highness.

I will try not to disappoint your loyalty. King Andrew leveled his own gun.

The hatch dissolved in a flash of smoke and fire.

Shouts and gunfire erupted as armored assailants flooded through. His own men opened fire, felling the first three attackers instantly. But more surged behind.

Bright flashes flew past King Andrew’s head. He realized the boarders were firing scramblers, stun weapons whose pulse shut off the body’s voluntary nervous system, forcing the target’s limbs to go limp while allowing his heartbeat and lungs to operate.

He caught brief glimpses of maroon and tan uniforms. They were oddly familiar, but out of place. They didn’t look like Martian uniforms.

The guards shot more and more of the attackers. Five, ten, fifteen. But the scramblers kept coming—and finding their marks—and in another thirty seconds all of Andrew’s men were disabled.

As if a door had swung open, the invaders swept into the cabin. They shoved the bodies of the king’s men aside and turned their weapons on Andrew.

In that shocked moment he realized where he’d seen these uniforms before. His assailants were not Martians.

They were his own secret police.

Detective Inspector Konrad Toers sat hunched in the front passenger seat of a Kesek groundcar as it wound its way up a tree-lined hillside. He folded his arms crossly and glared into the misty evening. Rain dribbled down the outside of his window. The steely grey clouds swaddled the entire valley below. He closed the top button of his maroon coat in defense against the chill seeping through the tinted glass. Faster, please.

The burly constable beside him grimaced. Sorry, sir. This blasted rain’s making that difficult.

Toers grumbled. He looked into a rearview mirror and was pleased to see the other four black and maroon groundcars keeping pace behind his. Toers returned his attention forward in time to see the sprawling five-story mansion rise behind the trees. He looked in faint envy at the stone and wood structure enclosed by low granite walls. In his groundcar’s headlamps, it looked dark and foreboding—no lights on, internal or external. No one to welcome us?

The cars pulled up into a paved courtyard and parked before a wide stone staircase. It led up to a tall, wooden door carved with the ring and eight stars of the Starkweather seal. Still no lights came on. That irked Toers. This place was supposed to be under constant surveillance by Kesek assets. Had the estate been abandoned in secret?

Fifteen Kesek officers piled out of the groundcars. Most unholstered their standard issue KM3 pistols, but six carried scramblers to stun anyone on the estate.

Toers made sure he was the last one to exit. Listen up. He wiped mist off his brow. The household consists of five family members and eight staff, but we already know Colonel Verge and his son are not present. Arrest anyone you see. Bring them to me. Move!

The officers split up into pairs. Six men went around the east side of the mansion, four went around the west side, and the remaining four went to the front door. The latter group included two technicians, who immediately hunkered over an access panel. Two officers stood facing the door, weapons leveled.

Toers joined them. He listened to the techs’ murmurs, their tapping of delver keys, and the beeps from the access panel. A sudden clack shook the door. Unlocked, one tech said.

Toers nodded to the two officers. One braced his shoulder against the door, hand resting on the knob. The other raised his gun.

They pushed inside.

Toers followed, sweeping his weapon around a very dark and empty vestibule. He pulled a hand beacon from his pocket and shone it about. The beam cast shadows behind a curving staircase leading to a second floor mezzanine. The light played off oil paintings of mountain landscapes and starry vistas hanging on the pale wood walls. It illuminated family portraits and images from what appeared to be camping trips that decorated the lower walls.

Nice digs, eh, Inspector? a sergeant said.

Definitely wealthy, but not ostentatious—like the Verges themselves, as recorded in our files, Toers said. It’s always a pleasure to see that Kesek’s information is accurate. Get the lights on.

One of the techs fiddled with the illumination controls by the front door. Toers winced as a brilliant light lit up the vestibule. It sparkled off the pale stone and brass fittings on the wooden cabinets. He squinted up at the shimmering chandelier. Impressive.

His comm unit beeped at him. Toers dug it out of a jacket pocket. What have you found?

Sir, Team One here. We’ve checked the entire west side of the house, and we’re searching the outbuildings now, but there’s no sign of anyone. Looks like they left in a hurry, though. Found some open closets and clothes tossed about. The main vehicle bay’s doors are wide open, and there’s no vehicles in sight.

One of the other representatives must have warned Professor Douglas-Verge. Blast, Toers said. I knew we should have rounded her up immediately. See what else you can find.

Yes, sir.

Toers returned the comm unit to his pocket. His sergeant hustled up to him, boots clattering on the floor. He had a mottled green backpack in his hand. What is it? Toers asked.

Detective Inspector, we found out what happened to our surveillance. The sergeant upended the bag. A clump of wires and fur landed with a soft whump.

Toers bent over it. He wrinkled his nose—something was burned. He drew his delver from a pocket and poked at the remains. One of our robotic spies. Squirrel, by the coloration. Hmm.

Someone used him for target practice, sir.

No doubt shortly before they left. Toers locked eyes with the sergeant. Why wasn’t the surveillance failure reported?

Could’ve slipped by the techs. Maybe the Verges have friends inside Kesek. Or maybe—

Never mind. Put out a search for the Verges’ delvers. If they try to access the Reach for news, we’ll—

Uh, sir . . .

Now what?

The sergeant wordlessly rustled into the backpack and then handed over three delvers.

Toers sighed. Perfect.

Guess we have to track them the old-fashioned way, huh, sir?

Toers glared at him. Look up all her known contacts. Disperse the teams to those locations. If you need more men, contact our New Denver office.

Yes, sir.

Toers rubbed his face. This was not going well. All he had to do was track down Professor Tara Douglas-Verge, alternate from Starkweather to the Congress of Worlds, and her two daughters. Three women. Surely he could find three women.

But where had they gone?

Frustrated, he kicked at the remains of the robotic squirrel. He glared at the family images hanging on the wall. The smiling Verge family mocked him, especially Professor Douglas-Verge’s dark face.

Then Toers looked more closely at their surroundings in the portraits—aspens and pine. They framed a cabin.

Toers smiled.

Tara Douglas-Verge held tight to the reins of her horse. The mare was an Appaloosa, brown with white splotches. Tara had ridden her many times over the past years, usually on warm summer outings.

But now she shivered. Her stomach knotted with worry. It was cold up here in the Big Horn Mountains more than two hundred kilometers east of the Verge estate in Jackson, Wyoming. A light snow drifted down through branches of leafless aspen and shaggy Douglas fir, glowing in the scattered moonlight. It cast the head of her horse in a pale aura. She looked about the long, wide ridge perched several dozen meters above a winding ice-covered stream. All was eerily quiet save for the gurgling of water beneath the ice and her horse’s shuffling of its hooves.

Tara wore a long, mottled grey and white parka. The pseudo-fur lining tickled at her neck. The grey insulated trousers and white boots kept her toes from freezing. She patted the two brown packs secured behind her saddle. She pulled her white fleece cap snug over her ears and turned to her daughters.

Bridget and Julianna waited for her farther up the snow-covered ridge. They sat astride a pair of Appaloosa stallions and wore snowsuits identical to hers. Tara could see Bridget’s dark face watching her in the moonlight, the anxiety visible even from such a distance. It was like looking at her younger self. Julianna’s bold expression was equally recognizable. The moon was so bright tonight they didn’t need to use their handheld beacons, which was a good thing.

It was that moonlight that kept Tara amongst the shadows of the pines, watching every dark corner as if it concealed a lurking danger.

Bridget’s horse shuffled down through the snow. Mother, we shouldn’t wait any longer. Her voice sounded as loud as a groundcar engine in the solid silence of the mountain air.

Tara held up a gloved hand to hush her. She glanced at the sky.

Like those rats could ever sniff us out up here. Julianna’s voice carried easily across the distance. She jerked the reins to turn the stallion around. How far is it?

About an hour. Tara tried smiling, mainly to reassure Bridget. Her younger daughter stayed close to her side. It’s been a long time since we went riding.

Bridget nodded. Uncle Connor’s ranch in Montana, three summers ago.

Julianna gestured to them. C’mon, let’s go. She urged her horse on, but seemed to have little luck pitting her impatience against the animal’s stubbornness.

Tara gently urged her horse on to meet her. Bridget followed. When she reached Julianna, Tara reached over and ran a hand over the stallion’s mane. There now, be easy.

The stallion whinnied and pawed at the snow. But when Julianna tried a gentler restart, he stepped off without hesitation.

Hard to believe this is how people used to travel all the time. Tara shook her head. No cutters, shuttles, hovercraft, groundcars—

Mother? Julianna’s eyes were steely even though her voice had acquired a quiver.

What is it?

Do you think . . . Julianna chewed her lip. Are Father and Alec okay?

Tara sighed. She sidled her horse closer to Julianna as they crossed the ridge, following its slope down into a narrow valley. Tara drew her older daughter into a brief hug. Your father is the finest Lancer in the Realm, Julianna. He is strong and he will protect Alec. Don’t forget, they aren’t alone—your Uncle Jonathan, Uncle Connor, and Aunt Colleen are with them.

They could all be in danger, Bridget whispered.

I know. She did indeed know. Tara struggled now to hide the tears burning at the edge of her eyes as she thought of the last time she’d shared a laugh with her brother, Major Jonathan Douglas: their family gathering before he had shipped out to the Bethel system with Tara’s husband, Lieutenant Colonel James Verge, and their son, Cadet Trainee Alec Verge. James’s sister, Commander Colleen Verge of the HMS Herald, and his brother, fighter pilot Lieutenant Connor Verge, had gone with them.

If Kesek and the Martians were working together to attack Earth, then the mission that had led so many of her family away from Earth had probably been an ambush as well. What had become of them?

James. She missed him so much. A part of her always felt empty when he left Earth. But this time the ache was more profound—she knew quite well he could be in danger. Or already dead.

They will be all right, girls, she said firmly. It was easy enough to reassure them. Now just convince yourself.

The Verge girls wound their way down a narrow path into a rough clearing hidden from the view of the old highway and nestled in the shadow of a mountain peak. Hooves crunched through the snow that had already accumulated on the fallen leaves, though many trees still bore their autumn decoration. A white, fluffy layer coated the top of the sagging cabin they now approached. Memories warmed Tara in spite of the cold.

They tied their horses to a nearby stand of aspens. Let’s get indoors, ladies. Tara pulled her two packs off her horse as the girls followed suit.

They trudged through the half-meter-deep snow toward the front door. Tara finally allowed herself to relax. She tried not to think about Representative Carina Sulis’s panicked message that had, just seven hours ago, sent them on this flight. She tried not to think about the Kesek officers who might even now be swarming across the continent seeking members of the Congress of Worlds. Her king was lost and Earth was under attack, but Tara Douglas-Verge wanted desperately to shield her daughters from it all. At least for a while.

Tara unlocked the cabin’s front door and pushed it open with a creak. Then she gasped and dropped both packs.

A young woman wearing a close-fitting white jumpsuit sat serenely in a chair next to the sole table. Golden light from a portable lamp on the wooden table flickered across the olive-skinned, aquiline profile of her face and her close-cut black hair. Her nearly black eyes shone keenly. Professor Douglas-Verge. I am thankful you arrived safely.

Tara was stunned. Bridget pressed close to her. Julianna, though, tossed her packs aside and put her hands on her hips. Who are you?

Your helper in time of need. The young woman rose. My name is Najwa. Insh’allah.

Chapter 1

October 2602

Bethel Star System

Bethel, New Grace

"Now faith

Baden Haczyk lowered the Bible that was nestled in his hands. He couldn’t believe he was reading this stuff, out loud no less.

Even harder to believe were the four hundred Bethelites raptly listening to him read.

They crowded before him in the wide-open central square of New Grace. The formerly tranquil grassy knoll looked like a war zone. Mangled robots, Martian and Starkweather, were scattered everywhere. Most buildings lining the square were skeletal remains of their beautiful brick, stone, wood, and permacrete selves. Charred black was the color of the day.

But even as the stench of burnt everything assaulted Baden’s nose, he wondered at the faith of the people standing under this cloud-speckled blue sky in awed silence. Everyone looked at Baden as a constant breeze rustled the leaves on the few scorched trees left standing.

He hoped they didn’t see the same gangly, skinny youth with messy brown hair that he saw the last time he’d looked in a mirror. The steady wind gusted. Baden shivered and rolled down the sleeves of his favorite orange shirt.

The quiet crowd was an exception to the bustle all about. Emergency workers in blue jumpsuits crawled in and amongst the shattered buildings. Baden saw dozens of dog-sized robots leaping and burrowing as the humans directed them. Searching for survivors in the rubble.

Beyond the crowd, Starkweather Lancers in grey-green fatigues moved wrecked robots. Some picked over the remains of shattered Martian bots, looking for technical tidbits, perhaps. A shadow flashed over the crowd. Baden looked up in time to see a pair of Lynx fighters soar above the square. The shriek of their ramjets shook his insides a second later.

Baden looked down at the rest of the passage he was supposed to read. It was a litany of heroes. Abel. Noah. Sarah. Joseph. He couldn’t bring himself to read aloud of their faith and suffering. He’d read enough for now.

Thank you, Baden. Assemblyman Bartholomew Heng stepped up beside him. The kindly man with the Asian features had made it his business to act as a buffer between Baden and the other Bethelites. They all wanted that book so badly. They wanted to know every word.

Baden wished they’d just leave him be. Yet here he was. A reluctant preacher.

You have done a fine job. Heng smiled broadly. He was shorter than Baden and wore a plain-cut blue coat over his rough workman’s trousers. It means so much to our people to hear the Word of God proclaimed.

Yeah. Uh, you’re welcome. Baden tried a smile. It felt weak. He gave a halfhearted wave to the crowd before him. They cheered. Sweet nova, they cheered. At him or at the Bible, either one. He felt queasy.

Look, uh, I need to . . . go. You know, I need to go find the rest of the crew. Baden scuffed his boot in the green grass. Now there was a strange experience: grass. Life on a cargo six-brace, flitting from station to station, didn’t give him much time to enjoy the surface of any hospitable planet.

I understand. Heng gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. He faced the crowd. Thank you! Take these words that have fallen on your ears and pray over them. Meditate upon them! There is so much more we must hear! He waved his hand at them.

The crowd waved back. Some applauded. Their faces were so open and happy. Baden had to shake his head to make himself stop seeing them. Sudden anger overpowered him. They were reacting to that blasted book. Because they were crazy.

You think I’m going to be back for a repeat performance? Baden stalked off without looking at Heng. He didn’t want to see any disappointment on his face. He pressed between some of the smiling Bethelites—a pair of middle-aged women and their children.

I had hoped you would. Heng kept up beside him, albeit with more steps. They did take such great joy from it.

Yeah, well . . . Baden couldn’t deny that.

The breeze blew a sudden smell of—what was that, salt? Sea salt. Sea spray, it was called. He’d looked it up on the Reach.

Baden stopped in mid-stride. Heng kept moving for a second. Baden knelt and freed a few blades of grass from his boot. He rubbed them between his fingers, marveling at the sensation. They found a new home in his sleeve pocket, next to a certain orange data disk.

Heng cleared his throat. Would you please consider returning tomorrow?

Baden sighed. Maybe. I don’t know.

It would help alleviate their suffering. So many died in the attack . . . Heng seemed to deflate. But you have problems too, I know. He managed a small smile and walked away.

Yeah, problems. Baden grimaced. Like what he was going to do when Kesek eventually caught up with him and the rest of the crew of Natalia Zoja for possessing a text-in-violation.

The crew were waiting for him at the east edge of the square. His best friend, Owen Zinssler—Ozzy to Baden only—blond goatee, slim and pale-faced, nose buried in a delver that had its guts hanging out the back. Cyril, big and burly, ridiculous blond moustache, silent and just, well, Cyril. They stood by a stand of trees that were half-burned and stripped of leaves. Not far beyond a pair of six-legged Lancer robots—hexamblers, Baden had heard them called—went trundling by the square with power cells strapped on their backsides.

And there was his dad. Simon Haczyk. The captain, and the one face Baden didn’t want to see right now. Simon’s stern, pale green eyes stared right back at Baden. The square jaw twitched with—concern? Disapproval? Baden couldn’t tell anymore. Both made him irate.

Dad jerked his head. The breeze rustled his dark brown hair. For the first time Baden realized just how much grey was in there. His heart almost went out to him. Then Dad spoke. What happened with Heng? Is he going to buy it?

It was the third time he’d asked. No, Dad. I told you, I’m not selling it.

That was kind of the point of us coming here. His dad waved his hand around the square.

Baden caught sight of some of the crowd setting up tents near the perimeter. So many had lost their homes in the battle.

His dad’s words snapped him back to their conversation. We give them their farming machinery, get paid, and you get rid of that book. Not get up and preach to the local yokels.

Well, maybe I like reading to them, Baden said. It wasn’t a total lie. He felt the power behind the words as he spoke them aloud, even if they had no meaning for him. Baden felt the yearning of the Bethelites and felt an inexplicable hunger to know what they knew. Not like I’m gonna hand this thing over to them to read.

Dad sighed. He scratched the whiskers on his chin. Look, Baden, I know you’ve gotten attached to this book, but just think about the trouble it’s brought us.

Hey, as far as I see, Kesek and its pirate goons are the ones bringing the trouble, Baden said. He jabbed a finger at his dad. They were the ones who shot at us and hurt Ravenna. This book didn’t do any of that.

Yeah. Ravenna. Dad folded his arms. Going for his best father-in-charge look. And how do you think her daughter feels about that, hmm? You think she wants any of us to get shot over that thing?

Baden peered past his dad’s shoulders. Gail Salpare stood some distance back from the crew, deep in conversation with a pair of young Bethelite women. Baden’s frustration with Simon began to dissipate as he watched her freckled face crinkle with laughter. The wind jostled her short auburn hair and shifted the red work shirt she wore over tan pants. She’d urged Baden to keep the Bible. She felt there was some purpose beyond profit for it falling into his hands. Baden believed her.

She’s with me on this, Dad, he said firmly. She knows this hasn’t been my fault.

Never said it was your fault. That book—

"Cool your rockets, Dad! You think this