Necropolis 3 (23 page)

“
I took the liberty of programming the auto-pilot. Just hit the activation and it will take you out of the hangar, engage in FTL flight, and take you to the nearest system. It should be around a day's flight,”
Powell said over their radio link.

Greg felt relief flood through him. They came into the cockpit. Kyra slid into the pilot's seat, looked around for a moment and then stabbed at a terminal. Around them, the ship rumbled. Greg let out a cry of primal joy as he felt it lift off, then move forward into the nearest airlock and begin to cycle through.

“Godspeed. Remember me, please,”
Powell said.

A terrible thought took Greg, then. What if Powell was full of shit? Insanely, the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing they could do if he was calmed him. It was out of his hands. For once, that notion made him feel immensely relieved. He supposed that if anything went wrong now...well, he was ready to give up.

They cleared the airlock and began moving away from the ship.

“
Look,” Kyra whispered.

A few of the screens were tied into exterior cameras, pointed back at the station. Greg studied the scene they presented. The derelict station. The
Isis
and her three sisters, under control by a malignant artificial intelligence and an army of godforsaken, twisted caricatures of men. And, faintly, Powell's escape pod.

The bomb.

For an endless moment, time seemed to stretch into infinity, frozen and terrible. Greg had just begun to feel true fear when, suddenly, like a wave or a ripple in space, the lights aboard the station and the ships began to go out.

Then they made the jump to faster-than-light.

Epilogue

–
A Stoic Sunset
–

Powell had been right.

They'd made it maybe an hour in FTL flight before the engine blew out and they were kicked back into regular space.

“
From what I can tell...we're in the middle of absolutely nowhere. And we aren't going anywhere,” Kyra said, sitting back.

Greg paced restlessly behind her. As she said it, he stopped. A wave of lethargy washed over him. Suddenly, more than anything in the entire universe, he wanted to sleep. He yawned twice. It took an effort to stay upright and conscious.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“
I...don't know,” Kyra murmured.

“
And the scans?”

They'd run as many scans as had been available, trying to see if there was anything, alive, undead or whatever the hell the Augmented counted as, onboard with them, in the computer systems or even outside on the hull.

“Clean. The ship is clean, Greg. We got out,” Kyra said.

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. “Well...whatever we do, I think we need to sleep first. Honest-to-God, genuine sleep. Food. Drink. A shower...this ship looks just big enough that it might have something resembling a bedroom in it. And then we can think. Then we can figure out what we can do.”

“And if we can't do anything?” Kyra asked softly.

Greg shrugged. “Then at least Erebus and the Undead are gone for good.”

Kyra seemed satisfied with this answer. There were heavy, dark bags beneath her bloodshot eyes, set deep into her pallid face. She looked gaunt and a little sickly. He knew he looked worse. Their lack of sleep and food was catching up with them. Greg reached out and Kyra took his hand. They laced their fingers and Kyra rested her head on his shoulder.

They walked out of the cockpit.

They would rest, for now.

And figure out what to do next later.

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