Page 42 of The Brightness Between Us

“We’re taking reciprocity down to the letter here these days,” Sharma says. “Dimokratía had only a couple of hours to pick their own VIP guest to the facility, and Devon Mujaba was already in local orbit.”

“I played a quinceañera on Disponar,” Devon says. “Not sure if you noticed. It was a very last-minute booking. Since I was already here, the Dimokratía foreign minister thought he’d pass me a favor.”

I look at Sharma, drawing on all my playacting skills. “So Devon knows...”

“He already knows the content of the upcoming press briefing, that the mission has changed to colonization,” Sharma says.

“The true mission... wow,” Devon says. “This must be a complicated time for you.” He winks. He actuallywinks. The daringness makes me flush.

“Shall we?” Sharma says. “Even if we can’t go on board the ship, we can walk the observation platforms.”

Devon and I fall into step behind her, hands behind our backs. He smiles at me, almost says something but bites it down. Instead he keeps up that convincing fake smile.

“Sri told you I’m up for a broadcast?” I whisper.

“Yes, they did,” he replies. “It’s time the truth was told. I’ll start the recording whenever you give me a nod. It will be sent out live. The violin case...”

“Already on.”

“Did you...” He makes a motion of his hands flying apart from each other.

I shake my head sharply. Does he really think I’d put abombon board?! Of course not. And yet Devon looks disappointed.

His expression makes me wonder if I should back out of this whole plan. Devon would have been okay if I detonated the ship? I realize all over again that I really don’t know him or what he’s capable of.

“This moment will change history,” Devon says. “Maybe now human civilization will break out of the Cusk Corporation vise. I’m proud of you.”

Compliments from Devon Mujaba on top of utter dread. My stomach doesn’t know which way is up.

Tailed by the soldiers, Sharma guides us through labs and holding areas. This is the cauldron where the Frankenstein versions of myself are prepped. I pretend to be curious, calm. Like a museum visitor instead of the protagonist of a horror reel.

I’m not sure my pretending to be calm is convincing Sharma. “You seem to be taking the change in mission in stride,” she says as we pass along cavernous hallways, crates with obscure codes painted on their sides in Fédération or Dimokratía language, draped in army-green netting. Her tone indicates she means the opposite.

I shrug, like she just did. “The Ambroses on that ship are not me. Not really.”

She smiles sadly, like I haven’t yet realized something about my own feelings. “I can only imagine what you’re going through. It’s been a big few days for you.”

“Yes,” I say crisply. She’s rising above her station.

“May I ask what’s in here?” Devon interrupts.

She has brought us past a smaller lab. The door is a thick material, so that whatever is inside can be kept at a constant temperature. Through the window, I can see vertical vinyl flaps, to prevent too much airflow. Most likely something organic is stored here. Devon has a good eye.

Sharma cuts a glance at the Dimokratía officer nearest us, then stands with us at the door’s window. “This is where we keep the embryos that will produce generations of human life on Planet Cusk. Over a thousand of them, from discrete lineages across the Earth. Of course, half are from regions held by Fédération, half by Dimokratía. We are very careful about fairness.”

Devon gives a hard-to-interpret snort. “They’re not really embryos yet,” he says. “The genetic code has been joined but gestation hasn’t begun, so these are really just chunks of biological data. They can’t be considered embryos until they begin to divide and grow on the exoplanet.”

Sharma blinks. “Is that so?”

“A Heartspeak Boy and also an amateur biologist.You’re quite the renaissance man, Devon Mujaba,” I say.

“No, no science background, just fascinated by this mission. I’ve spent the last hour researching as much as I can about what it would involve.” Devon flashes his demolishing sunray of a grin again.

“And we should move on,” Sharma says, cutting an eye to the Dimokratía guard tapping an impatient finger on his plasma rifle.

The hallway has curved around the expanse of the ship, and as we come to the end we’re again in the cavernous hangar space, the sleepingCoordinated Endeavorhulking below us. Only now we’re on a catwalk that runs above theAuroraportion before ending at the central joint where that ship meets theEndeavor.“May we?” Devon asks, gesturing along the catwalk.

Sharma glances at the time on her bracelet and nods. “If you keep it quick.”

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