Page 43 of The Brightness Between Us

The inspection catwalk is so narrow that we have to go single-file. We wait for a refitted warbot to clear the gangway before we start. Devon goes first, and I follow, my stomach churning. “I’ll meet you back here,” Sharma says, deep in her bracelet messages.

We go a few paces down the catwalk, its metal ringing out under our boots. “Anyone following?” Devon asks.

I scratch my chin against the fabric on one shoulder so that I can casually glance behind us. “No. There’s only one exitpoint, and Sharma and the soldier are just waiting there.”

“Looks like a pretty good stage,” Devon whispers as we come to a stop at the end of the catwalk. “The ship below, all these lethal warbots milling around, to remind viewers of the weapons of war. A producer couldn’t design better.”

I stand next to him, looking down at the ship. “I’m going to pretend to be overwhelmed. That I need a hug,” I say. “For Sharma’s sake. So she doesn’t wonder why we’re lingering.”

“What?”

I lean into him, press my head against his neck. “Oh,” he says.

The hug is nice. Very nice. But it’s not the point. Devon’s smooth arms are around me, and I feel his hand reach into the fold of my wrap. My hand meets his within the fabric, and I find the streamer. It’s a small device the size and shape of a dragonfly that transmits to a secure server and pings the connection using dedicated hardware to confirm it’s happening in real time. Without that level of verification, no one will believe what I’m about to say.

“Do you want to start it off, or...,” I ask.

“You’re doing this alone,” Devon whispers, stepping back from our embrace. “You’re a Cusk. Of course your mother will do whatever it takes to shield you from what comes next. I don’t have that luxury. I’d rather not be executed.”

“You’re Devon Mujaba,” I say. “Not exactly an unknown.”

“All the better to make an example of me. Even with war broken out, they’re going to fight to hold this consortium together long enough to launch the mission. If they can’t unite the people through hope, fear will do just as well.”

He’s right. I just don’t want to do this alone.

Devon can see I’m waffling. He puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “They lied to you about your life’s purpose. They dishonored your sister. They have this coming. You’re doing the right thing.”

“I don’t know...,” I start to say.

Devon reaches into the fold of my robe, hands digging along the belt of muscle over my hips, until he finds the streamer again. He pulls it out, clicks it, and tosses it into the air so it hovers before me. “Show’s on,” he says. I hear his rapid footfalls on the catwalk as he heads back toward Sharma and the guards.

I stare at the hovering streamer, which sends out an array of light to pick up every pore of my skin, all the magnitude of the joined ship, every authenticating detail of my surroundings. Devon hurled it in such a direction that my body mostly shields what I’m doing from the view of Sharma and the guards, but I still don’t have much time until they catch on and forcibly stop me.

Ambrose Cusk is broadcasting from the ship he was supposed to pilot to rescue Minerva. That’s a draw—lots ofpeople’s bracelet OSes will autoplay this one. Already the watching count on the streamer has ticked up into the tens of millions.

How to start? I’ll try to start by not throwing up. “I’m going to make this quick,” I manage to say despite the fear that sets my body shaking. “The mission to rescue my sister wasn’t canceled because of new information. It wasn’t scrubbed at all. It was never meant to go. Dimokratía and Fédération lied to you, trying to misdirect your attention from what matters. By manipulating you. They lied to me, too. It’s all so that my clones would believe. There’s a Dimokratía spacefarer on board as well. That’s his ship you see. They lied to him, too. Our copies will live disposable lives on a trip to an exoplanet, where only the last clone will survive. I have been spun a tale to keep me pacified, while they did this in my name. Just like they are doing to all of you.”

I hear bootfalls ring out on the catwalk behind me, harsh words in Dimokratía.

“I don’t have much time,” I say. “This mission can’t go, not if you resist. Not now that you all know the truth. It’s immoral. It’s dishonest. They’ve lied to all of us. They’d never have told you about this future, because it means Cusk has decided its destiny is off-planet. That you are doomed.”

Rough hands are on my back, hurling me away from thecatwalk. “I’m Ambrose Cusk!” I shout.

Then I hear the readying of a gun, the click of a trigger. The streamer flutters to the hull of theAurora, hopping once and then giving up, like it’s been slain.

I cover my face where I lie on the ground, as boots clomp on the catwalk around me. I can understand the Dimokratía language when I concentrate, but right now I can’t manage it. I just hold my hands in front of my face, waiting to be killed. Then I’m heaved to my feet, my wrap swirling around me, and dragged roughly along the catwalk, sandaled feet bumping rhythmically along the metallic mesh of the walkway as I try and fail to stand on my own.

Sharma is ashen. “What have you done?” she asks.

I shake my head, beyond words.

“I was in charge of you,” she says, putting her hand over her mouth. “What have you done tome?”

I hadn’t thought about that. I just needed to speak the truth.

She’s not angry. She’s terrified. “The world is falling into war. And you expected people to stop fighting to protest this mission? How naive can you be?”

The guards drop me in the hallway. They shout at each other, bracelet-messaging their commanders. I hear footfalls as the Fédération guards rush to join them. These soldiers will no doubt bring me to my mother.

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