Nova (10 page)

Taking my cue from her, I rise and head toward the exit. As I make my way out of the docking ring, I think about Kerr’s offer of employment. It was genuinely kind of her to think of me, but somehow I can’t manage to conjure up a single circumstance in which I’d want to take a job on a freighter.

It’s just after lunchtime and I’m finishing up a sandwich in the cafeteria when I get a link. I can’t stop the smile spreading over my face as I think of Michael and remember his words from the day before.

Wow! You look cosmic. Really cosmic.

I’m suddenly glad I took the extra grooming time this morning. I activate my chit, expecting to see Michael’s smiling face.

A soldier stares back at me.

“Uh, hello,” I say, my smile faltering as I take in his stern expression. While I suppose the station controllers must have all the refugees’ link numbers, it never occurred to me that they might use them.

“Lia Johansen?” the soldier asks, and I nod. “I’m Corporal Matheson. Please state your current location.”

“I’m in the cafeteria. On Level Five,” I hasten to add when he continues to stare at me. A bad feeling starts to spread through the pit of my stomach.

“Your presence is required at the entrance to Cargo Bay 8A. Please report here straightaway.”

“Okay. I—Is something wrong?”

The soldier’s face gives nothing away. “You will be told all you need to know once you report to the cargo bay.”

“I’ll come right away.”

“Good. Matheson out.”

The link cuts off, and I’m left staring at the air where his holo used to be. Why would the soldiers want to see me? Have I done something wrong? They couldn’t know that I . . . ? They couldn’t have figured out I’m a . . . ? Could they?

No, my only recent dealing with the military was with Ensign Dern, and she didn’t seem in the least suspicious. If they were going to figure it out, they would have done so a long time ago, I tell myself. Still, my heart is pattering rapidly in my chest, and for a minute I consider not reporting as ordered. I probably have ten minutes before they’ll start missing me, and the station is big with plenty of places to hide.

I shake my head, suddenly realizing how deficient I’m being. They can track me by my chit, so unless I find a way to pry it out of my hand first, I’m not hiding anywhere. Besides, hiding would only make me seem guilty. Whatever they want, it’s probably nothing.

My appetite gone, I toss the remainder of my lunch in the trash and head down to Level Eight. Corporal Matheson is at the entrance to the bay, waiting for me.

“Lia Johansen?” he asks when I approach, though he just saw my face on the hololink.

“Yes.”

“Come with me.” He starts striding briskly toward the lift, and I have to trot to keep up with him. It’s only as I follow him onto the lift going down that I have a chance to speak.

“What’s going on? Where are we going?”

He glances down at me, face expressionless. “Level Eleven.”

Level Eleven? I search my brain, trying to remember my long-ago exploration of the hub, back on my second day on the station. Memory clicks into place, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. Level Eleven? But that’s . . .

PsyCorp.

14
MY FIRST INSTINCT IS TO
run, and I might have, if I wasn’t currently stuck on a lift platform with an armed soldier. Instead, all I can do is stand numbly by his side as the lift descends toward my doom.

Level Nine.

Level Ten.

Level Eleven.

Almost as if sensing my reticence, Corporal Matheson ushers me off the lift, and I have no choice but to precede him through those tall glass doors emblazoned with the half-star. I pause just inside the entrance. The office is elegant and understated, its expense subtly insinuated into the room rather than being overtly showy. Like PsyCorp itself.

Ask anyone what PsyCorp
does
exactly, and you’ll never get the same answer. They are part of the military, but not confined to their jurisdiction. Part of the government, but above their laws. Only one in a million humans are born with psychic powers, true psychic powers beyond that modest sixth sense some people carry, and they are all part of PsyCorp in some way. Any child showing psychic abilities must be brought to PsyCorp for testing and registered. Supposedly they have the same rights and freedoms as everyone else, but somehow all of them end up pressed into some sort of military or government service. The Tellurians do the same thing. In this, at least, the expanse and the alliance are not dissimilar.

I once heard that only two percent of the personnel on this station belong to PsyCorp. That they have a whole level of the hub devoted to them, despite the space limitations on a station like New Sol, speaks volumes to their power.

The reception desk looms up in front of me, manned by a short guy with the PsyCorp logo on his uniform, and my heart begins hammering in my chest. The last time I felt this terrified, it was my first ride on the SlipStream. The SlipStream ride that jumpstarted my clock for the first time.

I imagine my clock suddenly restarting, my final minutes ticking down as I sit before my worst enemies. After all those minutes I spent in the cargo bay trying to restart the process, and all I needed was a trip to PsyCorp! I almost snort aloud at the irony.

Thankfully, my clock doesn’t restart, at least not yet, and any vestiges of humor quickly vanish as the receptionist takes us down a hall and deposits me in a windowless room with a table, a couple chairs, and little else. The receptionist nods me to a chair, and then he and Matheson take their leave. I don’t sit, but stare at the door and wonder if the corporal is posted outside or if I could simply walk out that door with none being the wiser.

Before I can test out the theory, the door opens again and another man enters. He looks at me with kind blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes.

“PsyLt. Rowan,” I blurt out stupidly. I’m not sure who I expected, but not him. Somehow his presence eases my fear the smallest bit, as though I can’t imagine this man ever doing me any harm.
But he can
, I remind myself,
and he will if he finds out who you are.
What
you are.

Rowan smiles. “So you remember me, Lia. Good. You seemed so frightened that day you came on the station, I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You remember me?” I ask guardedly, wondering if he recalls his short view into my mind. If he only belatedly realized that something wasn’t quite right and called me down here to finish what he started.

“I remember a lot of the people I checked in that day, for one reason or another. Of course, it helps to have a little reminder,” he says with a swish of his tip-pad.

A wave of relief courses through me. Of course. He has a file with my name and picture. I suddenly feel deficient for panicking so easily. When Rowan motions to the chair, I take it. He asks a few questions about my time here so far, how I’m settling in, and what I think of the station. I keep my answers short and conservative, unsure what to make of the pleasantries or their purpose. At last he says, “So as I’m sure you already know, we’re conducting interviews with all of the Auroran refugees.”

I blink. “You are?”

He laughs. “I guess word hasn’t
quite
gotten around yet. We’ve only met with about a third of you so far.”

I
hadn’t
heard, but then, I haven’t been spending much time in the bay lately.

“As you may know,” Rowan continues, “all of the non-Aurorans are being repatriated back to their home planet or colony, where their respective governments will take over arrangements for reintegrating them back into society. We’re already in the process of arranging transport, and we should be able to start sending the first refugees home within a matter of weeks. Obviously, we can’t do that for the Aurorans. Despite the ceasefire, Aurora is still technically under Telluria’s control.”

And even if it weren’t, it would hardly be fit for anyone to move back to today, I mentally fill in. Least of all a bunch of former prisoners with little more than a set of clothes and a sleeping roll.

“You’re trying to figure out what to do with us,” I state, understanding coming at last. All this time I spent panicking, and they don’t care about me in the least! They have bigger problems, with several cargo bays full of refugees and nowhere to house them all. At least, bigger problems inasmuch as they know.

“You can’t all sleep in the cargo bays forever,” Rowan agrees. “Now, a few of the Aurorans have ties to other places in the expanse—friends or relatives who may be willing to take them in. When possible, we’re trying to contact those people and make arrangements with them.”

“What about those of us who don’t have anyone?”

Rowan hesitates. “Let’s just say things are still being decided for the rest of you.” He glances away, and a bad feeling starts pervading my gut.

“For right now, we’re just trying to place as many people as possible,” Rowan continues, turning back to me with a smile. “Now, I know you said in your entry interview that you didn’t have any non-Auroran ties. However, it was a hectic day and a lot of people were pretty shaken up. Now that you’ve been here longer, is there anyone you can think of who might be able to claim you?”

For a split second, thoughts of Michael and Taylor and that little apartment in the Upper Habitat Ring flash in my head. I push the thought away and quickly shake my head. After all they’ve given me, I hardly have the right to ask for more. Besides, just because they gave me a pillow and some clothes doesn’t mean they want to adopt me. Or even Lia.

“Are you sure? Even just a friend of your parents who might be able to help you get a job or an apprenticeship?” Rowan pauses as if undecided whether to speak further and then adds in a serious tone, “You’re sixteen, Lia. Now if you were fifteen, you would be considered a minor and passed into the hands of social services, to be placed with a foster family on one of our colonies. However, the government has decided to treat all refugees sixteen years old and up as adults. That means if you don’t have anywhere to go, you’ll be treated the same as all the others.”

The bad feeling in my gut turns to full-blown dread. Rowan is warning me, in his oblique way. He has an idea of what’s going to happen to the Auroran adults, and it’s not good.

I swallow hard. Maybe I should have taken Kerr’s offer of a job more seriously. “I-I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Perhaps something will come to you over the next couple weeks. An old family friend you forgot, a second cousin twice removed or some such.”

Come to me?
I resist the urge to laugh. Ever since I destructed in the hygiene unit I’ve been hoping something will come to me, with zero luck. The only things to come back have been the odd memory here and there of Lia’s, and they certainly haven’t been helpful. And even if something did come back, what would I tell Rowan?
Well, actually I’m a Tellurian, so if you could just arrange to send me back to your enemy so they can fix my detonator . . .

Yeah, I’m sure the Celestians would be
happy
to do that, assuming they even believed me in the first place!

The Celestians will never believe us.

My mouth drops half-open before I regain my wits enough to close it. Those words, ringing clear as day in my head. Real words, spoken by a real voice. A man’s voice. I struggle to identify the owner of that voice, burrowing deeper into the memory as I repeat the words in my head: The Celestians will never believe us.

My name is Lia Johansen, and I was a prisoner of war.

What? I bite my lip and try again: The Celestians will never believe us.

My name is Lia Johansen, and I was a prisoner of war.

With a silent sigh, I let it go. Whatever I had, it’s gone now. I resist the urge to growl out loud in frustration. It’s as though the memories are
right there
. I just can’t seem to reach them.

“. . . worry if you’re not completely up on all your schooling for the past couple years. We understand that education isn’t generally considered a high priority in prison camps. This is just to get an idea of everyone’s general skills and education.”

Huh?

I force my attention back to Rowan, automatically taking the tip-pad and stylus he hands me. I glance down at the pad. It’s some sort of evaluation, like the exams you would take at the end of your REQs, or required educational schooling, to receive your diploma.

“Is everyone taking this?” I ask curiously.

Again, the slight hesitation. “No, just the Auroran adults.”

That feeling of dread is back. Still, whatever’s happening, it’s clear Rowan can’t talk about it. Leaning over the pad, I begin the test.

The exam is interactive. It starts by asking my age—easy, sixteen!—then going on to ask my last completed schooling year. This question I don’t know the answer to, but working off my identity as Lia and assuming I had schooling up until the internment camp, I answer Year 14. From there, it moves to a more traditional test of my intelligence skills, with a variety of math, English, history, and science questions. I do okay on the history and science, struggle on the English, but absolutely ace the math. So I’m good at math. Interesting. Or it would be, if I knew what it meant.

The second part of the evaluation focuses on my technical skills. Do I have any wood or metalworking skills? Architectural or draftsman training? Do I have experience using industrial chemicals? Am I licensed to operate a motor vehicle? Have I ever used a riding lawn mower (or any of a number of other machines)? Do I have any special skills or honors worth noting? A wry smile twitches my lips at that last question. Does being a genetically engineered human bomb with explosive capabilities count? With a slight shake of my head, I answer no for everything. It seems safest.

The final portion of the exam focuses on my medical history. Basic questions about whether I suffer from any ailments or conditions, have any disabilities or have ever had a heart attack or stroke, things like that. I put “no” for everything. Though I don’t technically know if my answers are true, I feel healthy enough. Rowan nods at the pad when I’m through as though the results are about what he expected.

“That’s about it for this time, but there’s one more thing before you go,” Rowan adds when I get up to leave. “Your file has been flagged. It seems you’ve gone into the Upper Habitat Ring twice now. We asked everyone to stay in the hub during the initial check-in. Can you tell me what you were doing there?”

They did? I don’t remember being told that, but then, my clock started up in the middle of my check-in. It’s very possible I missed the warning. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling a slight squeeze in my insides at the thought of never going back to Michael’s again.

“May I ask what you were doing there?”

“I ran into someone I once knew. He invited me over to his house.”

“Is that where you got the clothes from?” Rowan asks with a gesture at my outfit. His eyes narrow when I nod. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“I don’t know him or his family very well,” I admit, “and their apartment is small. Even if they wanted to take me in, they don’t have room.”

Rowan purses his lips. “We might be able to help with that.” He makes a note on his tip-pad. “I’m giving you dispensation to visit the Upper Habitat Ring for now. Renew your acquaintance, Lia. These people may be your best option.”

He hits the door switch to let me out, and I leave as quickly as I can without raising suspicion. The interview may have been innocuous enough, but all it would take is one casual touch from a passing psychic to unveil me. As I step onto the lift going up, I think about Rowan’s last words to me.

These people may be your best option
, he said, as though I have a future worth worrying about. A future worth fighting for.

Do I? I was never intended to live this long, and even now, I can’t ignore that clock in my head, silent and waiting:

*00:02:11*

Maybe it will start up again tomorrow; maybe it will never start up again at all. How can I plan for a future when I have no idea how long I have left? On the other hand, how long can I ignore the fact that I
am
alive? That whatever I was intended to be, I’m now a person with decisions to make and a life to live. A person who could live to be a hundred, to have a home one day, a family, a job. No different from all those other people living and working on the station. No different from Michael and his family.

There is something attractive about that idea, about being a regular person. Could it be that easy? To disappear into the Celestial Expanse and begin a life with no one ever knowing what I am, what I was meant to do?

Only I would know. I was sent to fulfill a mission, and I failed. Staying on this station is my only chance of possibly fulfilling it. Could I really just turn my back on my past simply to make a life of my own? Am I so selfish?

Michael’s face flashes in my head, then Teal’s, then Taylor’s. If I complete my mission and go Nova just like intended, they’ll die, too. There was a time when the idea of their deaths didn’t bother me one whit. Now, I can’t help shivering as I picture them being blown apart by the very girl they thought was their friend.

I’m so confused. If only I knew more about the mission itself! Who I am and why this space station is so important. I’ve been watching the news regularly on the viewer in the lounge, looking to see if any other Celestian properties have blown up, but found nothing. If they sent any other bombs into Celestian space, they either weren’t coordinated to go off with me or they turned out to be duds, too.