We thought we had all the time in the galaxy. Now it turns out we don’t have nearly enough. And every time we fail, we get less and less.
“Medical personnel required immediately, Deck 12,” calls the PA. “Repeat, medical personnel, Deck 12.”
Zila’s fingers are a blur as she types on Pinkerton’s computer. The wall panel opens dutifully, revealing the fragment of Eshvaren crystal—twin to the one hanging around my neck. I get it out carefully, bundle it inside a backpack, and hand it to Lieutenant Nari Kim.
Nari looks exhausted, and behind the stoic soldier facade, I get the impression she’s maybe even more panicked than I am. I can’t really blame her, either. If someone had told me when I woke up this morning that the future of the galaxy rested on my shoulders, I’d be a little shook, too.
“How you doing, Nari?” I ask.
She skims a hand back over her ponytail, tries to sound calm. “Hell of a day, Red.”
“You’ll get it this time.” I pat her shoulder, smiling. “I know you will.”
Fin risks a smirk. “Hey, if third time’s the charm, then the fifty-third’s gotta be pure gold, right, Dirtgirl?”
Despite herself, Nari smiles. “Whatever you say, Bleachboy.”
“It is only the fifty-second time,” Zila says. “And Nari is doing her best. Under extremely difficult circumstances.”
Zila rises from the computer with a wince, and Lieutenant Kim offers a hand. As Zila takes it, I notice a small flush on Nari’s cheeks.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
“I am … very tired,” Zila admits.
“If we don’t get through this attempt, maybe you could take a break next run?” I offer. “Try to get some—”
“No,” Zila snaps, her lips pressed thin. “There is no time, Scarlett.”
I sigh, knowing that she’s right, but worried all the same. Zila’s operating on zero sleep, her brain running a thousand klicks a second, but she’s summed it up perfectly, as usual. We’ve got three problems, really. But all of those problems basically boil down to one big one.
TIME.
Zila tried to explain Problem Number One, but honestly, temporal physics isn’t my thing. From what I can tell, the paradox of having two versions of the exact same piece of Eshvaren crystal in this timeline is creating temporal stress, and each time we loop, the loop grows shorter. When we first arrived here, we used to get almost two hours before the station went pop.
Now we’re closing in on one.
Zila’s whole plan revolves around us being out in the dark tempest next to that quantum sail at the forty-four-minute mark so my necklace can get hit by that pulse of dark energy. But what happens if the loop grows so short that the station blows up before the quantum pulse hits?
Because here’s Problem Number Two—Nari’s fighter ship wasn’t built to withstand the energies in that storm. None of those Pegasus models were. Which means to get out into the tempest and get hit by that quantum pulse and hooooopefully get snapped back to our own time, first, we need to get to the hangar and steal a heavy shuttle capable of getting us there.
Now admittedly, compared to some of the other crap we’ve been through, this part wasn’t all that difficult after the first couple of attempts. But even with us aboard the shuttle, we keep running face-first into Problem Number Three. That’s the one that’s killing us, over and over again. And with our timeline growing shorter every time we restart, we just can’t afford to be making mistakes anymore.
The station shakes around us, and the sirens start whooping like they always do. We look at each other in the flickering red light of Pinkerton’s office, and my heart is in my throat, as usual. It’s kinda stupid, but if we’re successful, this is our last chance to tell Nari Kim goodbye. And though we’ve only known her a day, part of me feels like I’ve known her all our lives.
I pluck a hair from my head, fold it inside a piece of note paper off the good doctor’s desk. “For the DNA swab in the Dominion vault.”
“Oh yeah,” Fin says. “Almost forgot.”
He marches over to the display case near the window, smashes the glass with one exo-clad fist, and grabs the cigarillo case. Hurrying back to my side, he takes the paper from my hand and slips his trusty ballpoint pen from his pocket to write on the folded page. Nari looks down at the message as he folds it up inside the case—a warning, in Fin’s handwriting.
TELL HER THE TRUTH.
“Seems kinda pointless. Kal doesn’t listen. But this cigarillo box saves his life at least.” Fin frowns as he spins the pen through his silver fingertips. “Still, seems an awful lot of messing about with time and space just to deliver a note that Mister Tall Dark and Broody ignores.”