Nova (2 page)

“Aurora Colony.”

He nods, expecting the answer. Aurora’s central records were destroyed when the colony was taken, which means anyone born on the colony wouldn’t have a ret scan on file or any other personal information. He types some data into his tip-pad, possibly opening a new file for me.

“And your family? Do you have any living relatives here with you from the camp?”

I shake my head. “I only had my parents, and they died at Tiersten.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and again I hear that gentle tone, so unexpected. “What about off-planet? Do you have any friends or relatives that weren’t on Aurora? Anyone that might take you in?”

“No,” I whisper, and again I think of that board of names, those people waiting behind the tapeline.

PsyLt. Rowan pauses for a second, regarding me silently, then finally nods. “Can you tell me your birth date, Lia? Your age?” he adds when I don’t immediately answer.

My age?
The answer eludes me, and I experience a momentary stab of panic at being put on the spot with a question I should know the answer to, but don’t. I force myself to remain calm, breathing a sigh of relief when the number flashes in my head. He smiles when I tell him the date.

“Sixteen? I thought so. You look so much like—” He stops suddenly, a faraway look in his eyes, and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He asks me a few more questions, and I answer as best as I can, watching as he rapidly types the information into his tip-pad, his fingernails as precise as a surgeon’s scalpels. He saves the file and codes it into an identity chit the size of my pinky. Loading it into a small insertion gun, he holds out his left hand, palm up. A silent request for my hand, I realize after a second.

Touching him is the last thing I want to do, but I give him my hand anyway, this time prepared for the rush of fear and adrenaline the contact brings. Taking my hand, he turns it over and staples the chit into my palm, right into the fleshy part at the base of my thumb. The metal spikes sink into my skin, and I jump as the chit’s biometal filaments unfurl and spread up through my palm to twine themselves into the nerves of my fingers.

“Did that hurt?” Rowan asks with a frown, releasing my hand and absently fingering his own chit.

I cock my head at the question, thinking.
Did
it hurt? The sensation was so brief, I can’t place it. Finally, I shake my head. “You just surprised me.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “All right, Lia. You’ve been temporarily assigned a cot in Cargo Bay 8A. You can use your ID chit to get food in the cafeteria, and here’s your sleeping kit. We hope to get everyone a change of clothes within the next couple days, but for now you’ll have to make do with what you have from the transport.” He shrugs apologetically at my plain gray jumpsuit, then hands me a bedroll wrapped around a towel and toiletry kit. Gesturing toward the entranceway, he offers a few final tips. “The nearest cafeteria is in the main hub, that’s here, along the yellow ring on Level Five, and the cargo bay where you’re assigned is along the red ring on Level Eight. We’ve posted a map right outside the bay so it shouldn’t be hard to find. For now, we’re asking that you stay . . .”

*36:00:00*

The clock activates so suddenly in my mind, my head involuntarily jerks a bit to the side. The fog vanishes, dissipated in an instant as though it never was. Memories come slotting into place, their edges sharp enough to leave furrows in my mind, and suddenly I know. I know exactly who I am.

My name is Lia Johansen, and I was named for a prisoner of war. She lived in the Tiersten Internment Colony for two years, and when they negotiated the return of the prisoners, I was given her memories and sent back in her place.

And I am a genetically engineered human bomb.

2
RELIEF POURS THROUGH ME AS
the last crystal-clear memory clinks into place. After weeks of being enslaved under a cloud of confusion, of second-guessing every thought and double-checking every memory, I am free. My mind clear and my identity assured; my purpose—unquestionable. Even my fears are not so powerful now that I understand them. I stand in the enemy’s camp, a genetically engineered human bomb created from some scientist’s DNA. All around me are people who would destroy me if only they knew they should, while in front of me stands the man who could reveal me with a touch. No wonder the sight of him was enough to make me panic.

“. . . can be confusing at first,” PsyLt. Rowan is saying, his voice sounding far away to my negligent ear, “but remember that the levels—”

*35:59:59*

“—have been coded into four sectors—red, yellow, green, and blue—”

*35:59:58*

“—which each correspond to one of the quadrants of the hub. So if—”

*35:59:57*

“—you get lost, just look at the floor. Do you understand, Lia? Lia?” He reaches out a hand toward me.

Don’t let him touch you, don’t let him touch you, don’t let him touch you!

Attention snapping back to the world around me, I jump back just in time to avoid his hand. “I’ve got it,” I quickly affirm. “Thanks. For everything. I think I can manage.”

Even as his brow furrows in concern, I am already nodding and stepping away toward the bay entrance. I shiver, recognizing just how close I came to being discovered. With the memory overlay shattered and my true memory restored, all it would take is one touch for him to realize I’m no longer the confused refugee he read before. If I’d let him touch me, or if my clock had started just minutes earlier, before they processed me in . . .

I rub the chit in my palm, remembering the way Rowan took my hand, held my chin. They had orders to touch everyone who came in, I realize. They were looking for enemy agents. It is the only explanation for every post being manned by a member of PsyCorp.

“Oh, and Lia?”

My feet freeze only steps away from the entrance.
Did I give myself away somehow?
Every instinct bids me to flee, but I force myself to look back.

Rowan smiles. “Welcome to New Sol Station.”

In just under thirty-six hours, this man will die by my hand. He’ll perish in a blaze of fire, blown apart in his prime by the very hand he touched, his young life ended after it barely began. This man who showed kindness to an abused refugee who was not what she seemed. Should I feel bad for my part in his demise?

Perhaps Lia would. But I am not Lia.

I pause just outside of the cargo bay to get my bearings. I’m standing in a huge circular room at the center of the hub. Sections have been cordoned off for the crowd, leaving makeshift corridors running along the wall and out to the lift station at the center of the room. A few crowd members glance at me hopefully, their faces falling as they realize I’m not their daughter, sister, cousin, friend, but I ignore them. Instead I concentrate on the map posted on the wall.

Thirteen levels make up the Central Hub, all connected by the lift station running down the center. The level I’m currently on, Level Seven, is made up of docking ports, hangars, and cargo bays, as are Levels Six and Eight. The station is a military outpost as well as a colony, and from what I can tell, the hub is primarily for military and transport use. I zero in on the top three levels—Station Control—and file the location away for future reference.

Levels Five and Nine are public levels. They contain the spokes leading out to the two habitat rings, and the space has been devoted to shops, bars, restaurants—places where visitors can eat, relax, and resupply. My stomach rumbles as I notice that both also contain the two hub cafeterias. I check my internal clock, still ticking down one second at a time. Thirty-five hours, forty-six minutes, three seconds. Plenty of time to get something to eat.

Feeling confident of my direction, I head down the roped-off corridor toward the lift station. People call out to me as I pass, wanting to know if I’ve seen this loved one or that. I keep my eyes forward, not responding to their queries.

“Lia? Lia!”

I keep going, certain the voice is addressing someone else. Lia’s parents are dead. She has no family now; no one who would come looking for her.

“Lia Johansen!”

This time I have to stop. There is no mistake; someone is calling
me.
Well, not me, but the person they think I am. Even though I know better, my eyes begin involuntarily scanning the crowd.

“Lia!”

The voice sounds practically in my ear, and I whirl around to find its owner standing right behind me. I step back so quickly I trip over my own feet. Warm hands grab my wrists and right me. Dark eyes, so brown they’re almost black, stare back into mine.

I forget to breathe.

It’s not that I haven’t been touched before; looked at, spoken to. I spent three weeks in the company of five hundred prisoners, after all. Only the contact was always impersonal, that of stranger to stranger. I was no one to them. Not one of them ever looked at me like I was
someone
. Until now.

His hands relax, but don’t let go. “It is you,” he says softly. “When I saw your name on the list, I didn’t really think it would be.”

The smart thing would be to tell him I’m not. To deny being who he thinks I am, to push him away and forget about him. I have only one mission, and it doesn’t include him. Whoever he is. It’s just . . . I don’t want him to let go of my wrists. I don’t want him to stop looking at me.

I stall for time. “Who did you think I’d be?”

“I don’t know. Some other Lia Johansen from Aurora Colony, I suppose.”

“Were there that many of us?”

“If there were, none of them mattered but you.” He ducks his head, looking embarrassed, and adds, “It’s good to see you again, Lia.”

“It’s good to see you too, Michael.”

Michael?
The name popped out without thought, but it must be right or he wouldn’t be smiling at me. When the overlay shattered, Lia’s memories scattered and fell away, disappearing from my conscious mind. I’d thought they were gone for good, but apparently they’re still in there, crouching somewhere within the pockets of my mind.

I plumb the depths of my memory, trying to place this Michael. He looks about my age—or rather, Lia’s age—but with his skin dark and mine pale, it seems unlikely that we’re related. Besides, Lia has no living relatives. A friend, then?

“It’s been a long time since those summer days in the park, hasn’t it?” he continues. “Seven years now?”

The park.

A playground, grass, white flowers everywhere.

“Higher, Michael! Push me higher!”

“How high, Li-Li?”

“To the sky!”

I blink, surprised by the memory. Now where did
that
come from? In my three weeks aboard the
Xenia Anneli
,
I never recalled that. “You used to push L—me on the swings.”

He grins. “You always wanted to go higher.”

“To the sky,” I agree. It’s starting to come back now. Michael, from Aurora Colony. Childhood playmates, he and Lia lived next door all their lives until his family left the colony when he was nine. I cried for days after he left.

She
, I correct myself.
Lia
cried for days after he left. I have never met Michael, and he has never met me. For the first time, I suddenly feel like the imposter I am. Not because I’m an enemy agent, not because I’m a bomb, but because I’m basking in the warm glow of a gaze meant for someone else. Someone special. Someone who is not me.

In its way, that’s even worse than being looked at like I’m no one.

I pull my wrists from his grasp and look away, suddenly all too aware that they aren’t my hands Michael is holding but Lia’s. “I should go,” I say, careful to avoid his eyes as I begin edging around him. “Thanks for coming to see me.”

He doesn’t take the hint, falling into step beside me as I head for the lift station. “Where are you going? Maybe I can show you the way.”

“The cafeteria, but I can fi—”

“Oh, sure. You must be hungry after traveling all day. Come on, we’ll go up to the one on Five.”

We?
“That’s okay, you don’t—”

“There’s one on Nine, too,” he continues, reaching out to take my sleeping kit before I even realize what he’s about, “but Five always has better desserts.”

Somehow our positions have gotten reversed, and now instead of Michael following me to the lift, I’m following him. I trail behind him, uncertain how to detach myself from him now that he’s so neatly taken charge.

The lift station is essentially a giant metal pulley that is continually in motion, one side always going up while the other goes down. I watch as the man in front of us steps onto a platform sliding up a track in the pulley as it comes level with the floor, briefly touching the metal pole to steady himself as the lift continues up. Glancing down the hole, I hesitate as the next platform comes into view. As if sensing my uncertainty, Michael grabs my hand and steps on, pulling me with him.

On instinct, I latch onto the metal pulley only to find that I don’t really need it. The lift isn’t moving particularly fast, and besides, the platform is surrounded on three sides by waist-high glass walls. The crowd shrinks as the lift bears us up and away. We pass the thick metal divider that serves as both floor and ceiling, and then we’re gliding into Level Six, which looks similar to Seven, but without the crowd or roped-off areas. I barely have time to take it in before we’re passing the next divider into Five. I’m so intrigued by the ride, I would have forgotten to get off if not for Michael’s hand tugging me along.

I pause next to the lift, watching as the platform disappears through the hole in the ceiling. “What happens if you don’t get off at the top floor?” I ask nervously.

“I guess we’ll have to try it sometime,” Michael answers with a shrug.

My eyes widen, visions of being smashed into the ceiling or pitched off at the top abounding in my head. Michael suddenly grins.

“Don’t worry, we won’t go splat. I promise.”

No, not splat. Just
boom.

I mentally check my internal clock. Thirty-five hours, twenty-eight minutes, three seconds, and then . . .

Nova.

They told me what it would be like, when I finally go. It will begin with a stretchy feeling in my mind, as if my brain is being thinned out, flattened and pulled taut like skin over a drum. My vision will go next, the world around me blurring as sparkles of silver and gold begin dancing in my eyes. Then my heart will begin pounding—it will have to, to force the chemicals through my bloodstream and into my chest where they will meet and ignite. The chemicals come from my arms, one from a sac engineered into my left forearm, the other from my right. Separate, they are completely benign, undetectable by any security system, but together they have the power to take down this entire station.

I’ll know that the chemicals have been released into my bloodstream when I feel a burning sensation in each arm. It won’t be long then. My eyes will go completely blind, vision obscured by a million glittering sparkles as the chemicals combine under the furious pumping of my heart, and then it will all go white. Brilliant, dazzling white the likes of which no one has ever seen before. It will be glorious.

So they tell me, anyway. Of course I have never experienced it for myself. Yet.

I give Michael a sideways glance. It’s a shame he’ll never get to feel what I’ll feel, to see what I’ll see, to experience what I’ll experience. To know the awe-inspiring power of going Nova. At least, he’ll still get to be a part of it like everyone else on the station, I remind myself. Just not the way I will.

Michael is waiting for me, lips quirked in an expression I can’t fathom as he studies me. Does he know I’m not Lia? If anyone could tell, surely it would be her childhood friend. But he only waves a hand at the area around us and asks, “Shall we?”

I nod and follow Michael away from the lift station and into Level Five. Compared to the relative quiet of Six, Five is a veritable hive of activity. The area is divided by four wide concourses marked by floor lights in red, yellow, green, and blue. They jut out from the lift station in the shape of a cross, each one leading to a spoke that connects the habitat ring to the hub. Between the concourses, shops and eating establishments vie for space with pop-up kiosks and traders with the odd grav-sled of merchandise to sell. Military officers in black and gold mix with colonists and station visitors, and I even see some refugees wandering around the floor, their origin easily denoted by their gray jumpsuits. It’s a good thing I have Michael to guide me, for I would be lost within the shuffle in a second without him.

He leads me through the bustle with unerring direction, skirting a couple kiosks and drawing me down a corridor between an Ionian restaurant and a clothing store. As we move away from the kiosks at the center of the level, the din quiets a bit, the outer reaches of the circle filled with more sedate lounges and bars. I glance at the floor and spy yellow emergency lights set into the decking. Yellow Quadrant.