Page 82 of The Brightness Between Us

The torch has served us well thus far, but I’ve just added the second and last oil-soaked sock I have. I have to turn the torch this way and that to avoid burning myself as cotton embers free themselves and drift down to my wrist. “How many flies are left?” I ask.

Ambrose looks up. “There was a good supply here, probably intended to communicate with the Dimokratía moon bases during solar storms, before lunar withdrawal ended all that. There are twenty-three total, three left to go. I’m setting the speeds so that there will be ten-year windows between arrivals, giving us nearly two centuries of error for theCoordinated Endeavor’s arrival time. Which isn’t a lot, really, when the journey is estimated to take 30,670 years.”

I nod. Twenty flies have already been sent. Even if there’s another explosion nearby, even if we’re vaporized this instant, there’s still a chance our schematics will arrive on the second planet orbiting Sagittarion Bb. Maybe they’ll just sit there, never seen, because theCoordinated Endeavorwon’t have made it. If there’s extraterrestrial life already on the planet, maybe those aliens will be poking at the flies and wondering what gods sent them. We could change their civilization forever.

I can recognize Ambrose’s movements at the dial by this point, predict the knocking sound of the launch of the next fly every four minutes or so.

This latest blast is followed by a deep rumble, as if the sky itself is roaring in pain at the bullet that we’ve fired into it.

Ambrose looks up again. “That’s...”

“Not from the fly,” I say.

“Two more left now,” he says grimly.

We don’t hear any more nuclear rumbles before the last flies are on their way. “Good timing,” I say, letting the charred stick drop to the ground, a torch no more.

We’re left in darkness. Ambrose flicks a switch, and the launcher sighs as it powers down. I listen to him breathe. “To the roof?” he proposes.

I check my meter for any signs of radiation. Nothing yet. “Take my hands,” I say. If I’m about to die, I’m going to hold those hands of his at least once. I extend mine, and slowly, fumblingly, Ambrose finds them in the darkness. I pull him in close, like the step of a dance, and then bring us to the roof. We take the steps cautiously, stumbling only once. We pause at the heavy door leading outside. Ambrose’s hand is warm and strong, with some tension sweat. I can’t resist; I graze my lips against his palm, close my eyes at the wonder of being so close to his skin.

Up on the roof, we rejoin Sheep, who presses her side against my thigh, bleating. I feed her some chives from my sack, stolen from the garden of an abandoned cottage we passed as we headed into the ruined city.

Another rumble, and this time we see the blinding flash and the mushroom. “We should get down below,” Ambrose says.

“We have another half hour at least before the first radiation arrives on the wind,” I say.

“The lab has shielding,” Ambrose says. “That’s where we should be. With whatever supplies we can find.”

Neither of us moves, though. I want to watch the explosions, but of course Ambrose is right. If there’s any hope of survival, we need to prepare now, in this brief window before isotopes or nuclear strikes themselves make it here. Right now, cities somewhere are falling. Millions must be dying. The strikes are probably starting in places where they’ll inflict the most damage. But there are enough warheads to hit every region in the world many times over. Including Old Scotland. The fact that we were capable of sending twenty-three flies from here proves that this area is worth a military strike. I know the decision I’d make, if I were in command.

We head downstairs. I don’t take Ambrose’s hands this time, because I’m carrying Sheep. We pass into the laboratory. I don’t have another torch, but the glow at the southern horizon has spread to the east and west, which means we have unnatural orange light coming through the reinforced windows now, lighting surfaces and bodies.

I settle Sheep on some blankets in a corner while Ambrose seals the door as best as he can, covering the seams with old-fashioned duct tape. I pull out my anti-radiation meds and start inventorying, separating them first by type and then by potency. Wondering if we can afford to use any on Sheep.

“Two weeks of water, three weeks of food,” Ambrose reports. “We should save those anti-radiation meds for after we have to leave this room, then they can last longer.”

To have his level of optimism.We won’t need any of thatis what I don’t say. Those strikes are quickly getting closer. I clench my teeth against the anguish rushing up from my gut, storm water rising over a drain gate.

“Done,” Ambrose reports, turning around and looking at me. “Kodiak, what is it?”

My desperate thoughts have gone to Li Qiang, my erotiyet from the academy. We stopped speaking to each other after I beat him out for the spot on theAurora.But before then, he’d been the closest I’d ever gotten to not feeling alone in the world. His touch had been a cure for loneliness that was better than anything that could be spoken aloud.

This sort of tragic ending doesn’t make me sad. It’s what I’ve always suspected I would have. I don’t want to tell Ambrose that he’s about to die, not if he doesn’t already know it. But I do know it. And I know what I want to do with my final minutes, if he is willing.

There’s only one way to find out if he is willing.

I take the two steps to him. I place my hand at the back of his neck, working my fingers through his overgrown hair. The orange light of the nuclear explosions glints on his skinprint mods as I crush my lips against his. For amoment he’s still. Then he pulls away. “Kodiak, what is this?”

“In case, in case we, I just wanted...”

Then hands are on either side of my face, and it’s him. Ambrose before me, the gentle arc of his parting lips, his eyes looking into mine. I kiss him. Move my palms to his head, so my thumbs are pushing into his cheekbones.

Ambrose presses his body against mine, belly to belly. His arms loop under mine, press his body tight, so there’s no space between us. My skin tingles as Ambrose lowers the back neckline of my shirt, kisses the tops of my shoulders. I sigh at the human release of it.

Then his hands are under my fustanella, fiddling with the leather, working their way along my undergarments, fingers touching flesh that hasn’t been touched in a very long time.

The ground rumbles, but we don’t stop. The window strobes white, then the orange glow returns.

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