Dear Marybeth,
It was supposed to be a simple experiment.
Well, nothing is simple about trapping dark matter. Still, the theory is sound, the experiments are straightforward, and the daily routines are predictable. And since we’re so far from civilization, we had to schedule everything out, just like they do for missions on the ISS.
Barely enough remained of the starship to make it valuable. It had been so badly damaged that Abby couldn’t tell what it was. It might have been anything from a cargo vessel to a battle cruiser. Now, it was past whatever purpose it had been meant for.
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Not again. Gerald could not do this one more time.
He rubbed his eyes. Michael’s words glowed at him in angry orange from the vidscreen:
REPORT INADEQUATE. RANKS MUST NOT BE ABBREVIATED. REFERENCE TIMECORPS REG. 927.3. RESUBMIT.
Gerald pushed back from the console and floated across the capsule until he bounced lightly against the opposite wall.
Your little act ends here. You fool no one. Now breathe. Relax. By the time you finish reading this message, all your online accounts will have been deleted; all your online profiles will have been wiped out. There will be nothing to recover. No data left anywhere whatsoever.
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“I said, hold still.” Landon squints at his phone.
I freeze, palm outstretched. Goodness, he’s getting snappy. “Have you got it?” My thighs burn from crouching on the boardwalk.
“Almost.” His blonde hair falls into his eyes as he leans forward and taps the phone screen. “Yup. All good.”
Long shadows crept down the hallways of the dead ship. The occasional piece of debris floated past, confirming Lianna’s theory that the whole ship had been decompressed. The structure looked intact, but no sign of the crew yet.
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Friends and fans knew him as Nole the Mole. The internet knew him as a viral failure.
Last year, he dueled Herbert the Hammer at the Twenty-Second Whack-a-Mole International Championship for the title of Mallet Master. Herbert’s score reached previously unseen levels, but Nole knew he could’ve beaten him— had he not ignored a “wet floor” sign, slipped, and sprained his mallet hand catching his fall.
I died three hundred and ninety-nine days ago.
The doctors told me that I didn’t really die. I just lost 46.6 percent of my human body. It felt like dying when they dragged my broken frame out of the rubble and inferno of the explosion and filled the empty spaces with wires and metal.
No one believed me when I said the moon disappeared. They said it went behind a cloud. That it would be back. It always came back.
“Not this time.” But insisting didn’t work.
The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. It swam across her listless body and stirred the stench of rot that hung in the small space. She inhaled deeply and stretched her arms, feeling the weight of the heavy chains that wound around her wrists and attached to the thick metal rings bolted to the floor beneath the bed.
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An electric pulse jerks my muscles awake. I gasp, filling my lungs with air. My heart pounds against my chest as it rushes me back to life.
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Aram sipped black coffee in a café on a street corner, quaint for a metropolitan area. He scanned his mark from a rough wooden chair on a little porch outside. An insurgent patrol, one of a few hundred targets to be obliterated in the same second, drove by.
The missiles were already launched.
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