Maybe it’s just some kind of universal justice. I finally get to snog Scarlett Jones, and reality implodes because it’s all too improbable.
But after the eighth time our new friend pulls the trigger, Scarlett and I rematerialize outside the engine bay, waiting for the inevitable, and nothing happens. No screaming alarms. No missile lock warning. Nothing.
Scar has her head tilted. Waiting.
“… She’s not killing us,” she mutters.
“Progress!” I’m grinning like an idiot. It’s not just because we weren’t blown up, to be honest.
Scar tries to muster a smile in response, but I can see how weirded out by all this she is. Honestly, I can’t blame her. In the last few weeks, this girl has lost her best friend, her brother, and now, apparently, her whole reality.
I reach for her hands, wrapping my fingers around hers, squeezing gently. “I know this is crazy,” I say softly. “I’m as freaked out as you are. But whatever this is, we’ll figure it out, okay?”
She manages a better smile for that, and despite all the insanity around us, I feel my heart flutter at the sight.
Maker, she’s beautiful.
Scarlett leans close, kisses me soft on the lips. “You’re sweet.”
“Don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a reputation as a wiseass to maintain.”
“Come on then, wiseass,” she smiles. “Let’s go see our Brain.”
We run together to the bridge, find Zila at the controls. Her eyes are locked on the fritzing rainbow displays, her lips pursed.
“Sitrep?” Scar asks as she strides across the cockpit, all efficient, sounding just like her brother for a moment.
Our Brain doesn’t look up from the monitors. “Spatially, our coordinates are identical to our first eight manifestations. We are several hundred thousand kilometers from the cusp of an immense tempest of dark matter. From the brief glimpses of stars we have, the nav computer calculates that we may be somewhere near Sigma Arcanis.”
“But we were in the Terran solar system.” Scar looks at that massive stretch of perfect black, the brief pulses of strange light within it. Her face is paler than usual. “How did we move here?”
“I do not know. But I aim to find out.” Zila taps her wrist unit. “I have set a timer. We must gather as much information as possible about these cycles. We are currently at four minutes, six seconds.”
“What about our trigger-happy friend?” I ask.
Zila looks at the monitor as though it has personally vexed her. “No radio contact this time. But as Scarlett surmised, whatever the nature of this temporal anomaly, the pilot’s actions indicate she is also experiencing it.”
We all flinch as the controls fizz in front of Zila. This ship was ancient when the Waywalkers gave it to us, and hasn’t enjoyed its recent experiences.
“The space station, the dark matter storm beyond it, and my external readings all are identical,” Zila continues. “The only variables in this equation appear to be our actions and hers. She has apparently decided that incinerating us is unfruitful, which is good news. The definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome.”
“That’s progress,” Scarlett murmurs. “If she knows something weird is happening to us all, we can try and communicate.”
“We must change our approach,” Zila declares. “Finian, what do you make of our surroundings?”
I bite down on the urge to be flippant, because we don’t have time. Our friend Shooty McShootface could start up again any minute. I know better than to bother looking out the windows—one of the principal characteristics of dark matter is you can’t actually see it, only what it does to the stuff around it. So I peer at the fritzing controls instead, looking over the data coming in.
“Well, that DM storm is huge. One of the biggest I’ve ever seen. Gravitonic, electromagnetic, and quantum fluctuations are all off the scale. But we’re far enough away not to suffer any ill effects, I think.”
“And the station?”
I check our cams. “Dunno. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It is Terran,” Zila murmurs. “As was the pilot who hailed us. But it is an archaic design. It is also seriously damaged. Venting core plasma, I believe.”
“So if that’s her home, she’s got bigger problems than us.”
Zila’s not looking quite at me, that big brain of hers going at full speed. “What do you make of that sail out in the storm?”