[ 3.7 ]
For the next several weeks, Serafin seeks an audience with his ostensible superior, but the good Professor Fyfe has abruptly become curiously difficult to reach: skipping meetings, calling in sick, going private on the roll call, teaching by remote. Serafin does manage to catch him when there’s a small fire in the Warrens, in one of the sections reserved for Fyfe’s antique books — very small, mind you, nothing that would harm anything of value — but even then the man makes a point to surround himself with underlings, and still manages to slink away through the shelves before Serafin can force a private audience.
And as time passes, Serafin’s enthusiasm for the confrontation wanes.
In the aftermath of the memorial, he had imagined shaking Fyfe by the lapels and demanding to know what personal vendetta could possibly justify using Serafin in such a contemptible manner. But after a re-review of his research material, Serafin concludes that multiple potential reasons have been lurking in the files the entire time:
The Hartshornes and the Gooderhams are in the midst of some inscrutable multi-generational feud relating to terrestrial land claims.
Chip is the captain of the Augustine zig racing team, which is currently soundly thrashing Fyfe’s boys.
Chip is even one of Rostam Galloway’s star pupils.
There are motives everywhere, for those with eyes to see.
If he truly wanted to, Serafin might be able to force a proper confrontation. But even if he did, what would be the point? He can’t apply sufficient duress to persuade Fyfe to grant the promised access to the data-bank — in fact, after making a few discreet calls, Serafin is no longer confident Fyfe has even maintained the clearances to do so.
But Ashley’s personal records make for a nice consolation prize. Better to focus on the Idea.
The records are irregular, incomplete, and several years out of date, but they do bolster Serafin’s research nicely. As soon as he plugs them into his idea space, new and alarming inconsistencies appear: shipping manifests where more cargo goes out than goes in, the inexplicable stockpiling of dual-use materials by corporations that have no real use for them, and regular reports from a Soviet asset code-named Scrabble who Serafin knows from official reports was killed in the first Iblis strike. There’s still no smoking gun, sadly, but with the help of the cognifier, Serafin manages to isolate what is referred to as a critical contamination point.
This contaminator is prolific, yet subtle: it issues false reports that appear innocuous, but help to bolster more egregious falsehoods that will be issued by other sources months and even years in the future. It indirectly backs up bad numbers about the uprisers in a highly classified report no one outside of Intelligence should even be aware of. Serafin can’t be sure, but he suspects they’re also helping to provide false identities for some of the bad actors who are contributing to the grand deception.
And it just so happens that it is also the likely source of the transmission to the Proklya that led to his abduction:
The Foale peacekeeper’s office.
Isn’t that interesting?
He’s tempted to skip Aphelion and make a trip to Churchill himself, but he knows he can’t risk it: he can’t be sure that he isn’t being watched, and he doesn’t really have any resources or deep connections on Foale anyway. The best move, he decides, is to hire another team. This will require another dip into the emergency funds, unfortunately, but this is too tempting a target to pass up. Given the depth and consistency of what’s happening, there’s a decent chance one of the peacekeepers is actively contributing to the disinformation flowing out of the office.
That would be wonderful. Someone to lean on. Someone to interrogate. Someone he could follow upstream, toward the source of all this deception.
In his small office, late one night, Serafin loads a cover identity, heads to the free intelligence offcon forum, and starts hunting for a hunter. Soon enough, he finds just the man for the job: a private intelligence analyst by the name of Mansoor Coker.
Manny is one of those curious liminal figures who exist on the edges of the intelligence world — while he’s spent most of his life doing jobs for SIS and DCS, he has never drawn a government salary; while he knows a great deal of state secrets, he doesn’t hold even a basic top secret clearance. Rumor has it that he’s got some unfortunate family connections, but Serafin isn’t inclined to pry.
The real world is messy. Sometimes you want someone who doesn’t have any official ties, but can still be relied on to get the job done — breaking into a red zone facility, say, or planting a tracker on a bureaucrat who might be leaking material to the other side.
Serafin puts in the request with a false identity. He considers just making direct contact — Manny and Serafin have some history together; Manny was extremely helpful with some sensitive work back when Serafin was helping run down Glenn Kaur, but he ultimately decides against it. Manny will do the job just as well regardless of whether or not he knows the client.
S: I need insight into Foale PK office.
C: Not a problem. Can have a scrape available by EOD.
S: I need it to be comprehensive.
C: Define comprehensive.
S: All employees, all records, all comms.
C: How far back?
S: Minimum, 9/76, but the further the better.
C: Peacekeeper systems are closed, as per UFA regs. Comprehensive access unlikely.
S: I’m willing to pay premium rates.
Premium, in this context, means that Serafin is not overly concerned about the legality of the methods that Manny might employ, and is willing to pay above standard rates to ensure the job is done. van Arden would throw a fit if he knew about this, but that’s precisely why he’s hiring Manny.
It takes a while for Manny to respond, but the answer is promising:
C: Can get you rosters and pubint faster, but internal systems access will be tough. Might take a few months.
S: Not a problem, so long as discretion maintained.
C: Understood. I’ll get back to you when there’s a clear course of action.
The Saturday before he is set to leave for Aphelion, Lucy surprises him with brunch, perfectly seasoned shakshuka with the eggs just right, along with a side of fruit and ultralight biscuits.
“Have you seen this sorry nonsense with Abergel’s daughter?” Lucy asks, pouring him another bulb of watermelon juice. “Honestly, I don’t know why he’s even bothering to stand for re-election at this point.”
“He’s playing the polls,” says Serafin. “He doesn’t need to be popular, he just needs to be more popular than the other candidates.”
“You’d think we’d have found a better way to run a government by now.”
“Mm. Well, the Technocrative took their best shot at it, and look where that got us. I don’t think anybody’s in the mood to shake things up at the moment.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Lucy fills a small bowl with fruit, and then sets it aside, which Serafin finds curious, but she continues on before he can ask about it: “I read some of the old terrestrial governments used to require a simple majority. You think that would be better?”
“It couldn’t be worse. What’s this all about, anyway? I thought you didn’t care for politics. ‘Nothing but thieves and jackals,’ I believe was what you said?”
“I’m pretty sure you said that,” Lucy says. “And JJ is thinking about running for student governance. I want to be supportive, that’s all.”
“Is he really?”
Lucy starts to respond, but the house system gingerly intrudes:
You have a visitor. Chip Hartshorne requests an audience with you.
Serafin blinks. “Whatever for?”
He has not stated his intentions. I could inquire, if you like—
“No no. It’s alright. Let him in.”
Chip steps into the room carefully, perhaps out of respect, or possibly out of fear of some ambush. It being the weekend, he’s abandoned his school robes in favor of a scramble-print suit with a shemagh around his neck bearing the Augustine colors.
“Pardon the intrusion,” says Chip, ducking to fit under the doorframe. “I was local, so I thought I’d stop by.”
“Think nothing of it,” says Lucy cheerfully. “We were just enjoying a bit of brunch. Would you care to join us?”
“Oh, much appreciated, but no, thank you. I just wanted to speak with your father; I won’t take up more than a minute of your time.”
“What can I do for you, Mister Hartshorne?” Serafin asks, letting a light touch of the stentorian he typically reserves for the classroom into his voice. Serafin figures best case, Chip is going to request an incomplete for the seminar; at worst, he’s here to announce he intends to file suit for infliction of intentional psychological distress.
Which, well. Fair enough.
“Simply put?” says Chip. “I hoped to apologize. I’ve behaved exceedingly poorly in your seminar this quarter. I’ve been… impertinent, disruptive… out of line…”
Fanatical, Serafin doesn’t add.
“… and I haven’t shown the proper respect. I’d also like to express my remorse for the… well, tantrum is the only word for it, I suppose. I’m not sure why I reacted the way I did, but there’s no excuse for it. I just wanted you to know, Mister Serafin: I’ve learned my lesson. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Serafin can see only sincerity in the young man’s posture: his shoulders are absent their usual slouch, and while he still meets Serafin’s eye with confidence, his gaze seems entirely free of their usual glint of insolence.
“Well, I appreciate that, Chip,” murmurs Serafin, with some astonishment. Has Chip actually learned and matured from his dose of public humiliation? Some studies have suggested that accelerated children have higher than average emotional intelligence; perhaps there’s some truth to that. “I must say, I’m rather impressed. In retrospect, I might admit my methods may have been somewhat more draconian than was necessarily warranted….”
“No sir, not at all! I could have gone to any school I pleased, on Earth or Luna. But I came to Firnas because I wanted to be challenged, to find out what my limits are. I’m honestly grateful for the experience, and I’m ready to come back to class, if you’ll have me.”
“I’ll speak with Missus Lincoln and make sure you’re provided with everything you need to get back on track,” Serafin says. “Although I can’t imagine you’ll need much. You’re a very bright young man, and you’ve got a lot of potential.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” says Chip. “And I was wondering… I’m required to do an independent study next quarter… I was wondering if you’d be willing to be my adviser?”
Good Lord, Serafin thinks. What have I done to him?
There’s a small part of Serafin that wants to come clean, to warn Chip about Fyfe. But Serafin believed, rightly or wrongly, that his actions were taken under the color of intelligence, and thus they have been locked firmly away in the clandestine corners of his mind. There is nothing really stopping Serafin from confessing, yet it feels impossible all the same, regardless of how remorseful he might feel.
Confessions are flimsy, cheap things, at any rate. Better to show contrition through action — although the timing here is rather unfortunate.
“Under other circumstances,” Serafin says with a sigh, “I’d be more than willing — but the Administrative has made it clear to me that my time at Firnas is likely coming to a close.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“As am I. That said, Mister Hartshorne, I’d certainly be willing to work with you remotely, and if you need a recommendation or anything similar, you need only ask.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you, sir. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Serafin’s afraid he’s about to salute, but Chip just gives him a polite nod, which he follows up with a bow to Lucy. “Missus Tick,” he says.
Lucy bows her head as well, pretending to take him seriously, and doing a marvelous job of not laughing with her mouth full. When the door closes behind him, she leans on her elbow, resting her head against her shoulder, staring at her father.
Serafin ignores her, pretending his meal requires intense focus and concentration.
Lucy laughs. “My goodness. What is going on in that seminar of yours?”
Serafin doesn’t care much for the grapes, but the cantaloupe is delightful, especially with a bit of yogurt.
“I mean, obviously something happened. Did you see the way he looked at you? He’d dive into a black hole for you, if you asked.”
“We had some spare remote seats,” Serafin says. “You were free to sign up, if you were interested.”
“I might have, had I known Chip Hartshorne was in attendance!”
“I wasn’t aware you knew who Chip Hartshorne was.”
“Really? He’s rather famous. Proper famous, mind you, not campus famous. I suppose you have that in common….”
Ah, the joys of fatherhood. “Ho ho. What’s he famous for?”
“Being rich, mostly. He has his own starsloop, you know.”
“Is that all it takes?”
“To be one of the most eligible bachelors on campus? Hmm… let me check… wealth, charm, intelligence, youth, good looks… why, yes I believe that about covers the gamut. And his clothes! Did you see his outfit? You won’t get that at a gen-fab, that’s for sure!”
“Bit young for you, isn’t he?”
“What a terrible thing to say to your daughter!” Lucy cries. “But I don’t know… the Prophet, peace be upon him, married Khadija when he was only twenty-five, didn’t he? And have you viewed Relativity of the Heart? They put it on at the Halqa last month. A wonderful story, about a beautiful, intelligent woman in her prime, taking a strong yet inexperienced princeling under her wing….”
“Please, Lulu,” Serafin says. “I’m eating.”
“Eat away,” Lucy says, scooping some the eggs and tomato sauce into a container. “I’ve got somewhere to be. Can you watch Billy?”
This would explain the food prep.
“I’m…” Serafin realizes he has no excuses at his immediate disposal. “Why can’t you watch him? It’s Saturday. I need to work on my book.”
(The book is the latest alibi Serafin has developed to explain the time he’s spending researching the Idea. There really is a book — an expansion of his monograph — but most of the work is being handled by a ghostwriting service out of Luna; his involvement has largely been limited to reviewing it for style and tone.)
“I’m off to the Alhazen.” Lucy dumps her leftovers into the recycler, smacking the handle a few times to make sure it closes properly. “Valerie Moss’s ex-boyfriend has agreed to meet with me. He claims he’s devastated by the whole thing, but I get the sense he’s hiding something….”
“Not this again. I really don’t think it’s safe—”
Lucy flaps her hand dismissively. “It will be fine! I’m bringing JJ with me.”
“Now you’re dragging your brother into this?”
“You did say we should spend more time together,” she jokes, before she sees Serafin is genuinely unhappy. She squeezes his hand to reassure him. “I’m sorry, father, but the peacekeepers have made an absolute hash of their so-called investigation. They keep saying she’d gone crazy, but I don’t believe that at all!”
Serafin follows her out to the hallway. “Lucy, I admire your sense of justice tremendously, but please note I speak from experience: no good can come of this.”
“Are you worried about my safety? That’s rather illogical, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
She shrugs on her coat. “If Valerie’s death was an accident, then there’s no reason to be concerned. If I’m correct in my suspicions, however, then surely the greatest concern is that we have a killer of women stalking the halls of our grand fleet!”
“Yes, yes, very clever,” Serafin says. “But the world is not so simple, dear. You aren’t simply looking into the facts surrounding the death of this poor woman — you are probing into the private affairs of the wealthiest and most powerful men and women in Copernica. Speaking from considerable experience, even the innocent do not appreciate having a light shone on their personal affairs.”
She stands at the threshold, headscarf in her hands, scowling at him, genuinely irritated. “Are you saying I cannot go?”
“You’re an adult. You’re past cannot. But you’re smart enough to understand should not. You have other obligations. You have a child—”
“You had two, when you went out to do what you felt needed to be done,” she snaps. “Two children, and a wife, besides—”
“I had a duty,” Serafin says, more sharply than he intends. “You haven’t been drafted into the peacekeepers; no one is paying you a salary to look into this. Valerie Moss was not family to you. I’ll thank you not to compare our circumstances.”
“Father—”
Serafin holds up a hand. “I’ve said my piece. I’ll watch the boy. Go, if you’re going to go.”
Lucy falters, for a moment, regretting what she’s said, but it’s not enough to stop her. She winds the cloth around her hair, tying it up neatly. “I’ll be back before the night cycle,” she declares. “His meal’s ready to go, and he can have some of his snacks later, but please make sure he finishes his lessons first.”
The fight with Lucy throws Serafin off for the rest of the morning, which isn’t helped when Billy wakes up and promptly makes a mess of his meal while chattering endlessly about the planetary excursion his class will be taking when they arrive at Mars.
“I’ve never been on a planet before!” Billy says. “I wish we were going to somewhere with oceans, I like oceans. They have whales! Did you know whales are the biggest animals in the solar system?”
“I did know that, yes.”
“They can talk too!”
“What do they say?”
“They say….” Billy does an unconvincing imitation of a whale’s groan.
“I see. And what does that mean? In whaleese?”
“I don’t know! Missus Akhund says scientists transelated most of the whale talking but I didn’t really understand some of what said. I think she said they have words inside of words? I don’t know. It’s really complicated!”
“Maybe if you go to the ocean you can talk to them. What do you think you would say?”
Billy considers this. “‘Hello!’”
Serafin nods. “Probably a good start.”
What are you going to do on Mars?” asks Billy.
“I’m not going. I have to go to the Aphelion Summit.”
“What’s a summit?”
“It’s a conference.”
“What’s a conference?”
“A conference is a place where a lot of important people go and make a lot of noise. Except unlike whales, most of the noises they make don’t really mean anything.”
“Are you going for secret stuff?”
Serafin looks up. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” says Billy.
“Billy.”
Billy shrugs. “Momma says you’re extra busy because you have two jobs. You do teaching but you also do secret stuff. And she said we need to not bother you too much because the secret stuff is very very very important.”
“I see. And did she talk about the secret stuff?”
“Um,” says Billy, trying to remember. He pushes his small hand against his chin, trying to imitate the way he sees adults thinking. “She said you keep people safe from bad guys.”
“I see,” says Serafin.
Another discussion we’ll need to have with Lucy when she gets back.
Serafin moves to sit next to Billy. “Well, she’s not wrong. But it’s very important we don’t discuss this outside of the family, alright? This is just between us Serafins, you understand? You can’t talk about it with anyone.”
“Not even Abigail? Or Donny?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” says Serafin. “You see, the thing about a secret is, the more people who know about it, the less of a secret it is. You know how the bad people grabbed me and they took my arm?”
Billy nods.
“Well, that’s because somebody didn’t keep a secret. That’s how the bad guys knew how to find me.”
“I don’t like that!” Billy says, sadly. He hits the table a few times for emphasis. “I wish I didn’t know any secrets!”
“Well, hold on, says Serafin. “There are good secrets and bad secrets. Like if someone was being mean to you or hurting you, you should make sure to tell us right away. That’s a bad secret. But there’s also things like presents, right? You know how much fun you had when your mom got you Roary for your birthday, right? That was a big surprise.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, you can’t really have a big surprise without a secret. And some secrets can be very important! Do you remember your lessons about the Prophet Mohammed?”
“Uh huh.”
“One of Mohammed’s most trusted companions was his friend Huzaifah, who was very good at keeping secrets — they called him the Secret Keeper, in fact. Once, there were some bad people keeping secrets, the munafiqin. But fortunately, Huzaifah was very smart, and he learned their secrets and told them to the Prophet! But he was only able to do that because he was able to keep secrets himself. He was very good at keeping secrets.”
“So… good secrets help stop bad secrets?”
“That’s right, yes! Very good. And you can help me, by keeping my secret. Can you do that for me?”
“I won’t tell anybody,” Billy says solemnly, hand on his heart. “I promise.”
“Thank you. If you want to talk about it, you can come to me, or your mother, or your uncle. You can always tell us anything, that’s always safe. But just us, alright?”
Billy nods, and then hiccups. “I have the hiccups.”
“Well, stop.”
“I’m trying!”
“Did you try holding your breath?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try standing on your head?”
“No.” Billy hiccups. “Would that help?”
“No. But it might be fun. Do you want me to scare you?”
“No!”
“Here,” Serafin says, fetching a bulb of water and handing it to the boy. “I’m going to close your ears very tight. When I do, I want you to drink this for me. Ready?”
“Ready!”
Serafin presses firmly on Billy’s tragi, sealing his ears shut, and the boy gulps down the water. As soon as he’s finished, Serafin pulls his hands away, and the two wait expectantly.
“All good?”
“All good!” Billy says, excitedly. “How did you know how to do that?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Oh. I have a secret!” says Billy.
“What’s that?”
“I love you!”
“I don’t think that’s a secret,” says Serafin.
With Billy at last stowed away, Serafin returns to his end-of-the-quarter instructions for Norah, hastily scribbling out some final notes calling for leniency for Hartshorne, considering his improved attitude. He is in the midst of wrestling with the truancy override system when the lights turn yellow and the consensus decorations fade away.
This is the UFA Emergency Response Protocol System. This is a yellow alert. Please remain calm and follow the emergency directives. Thank you for your cooperation.
A bright yellow line paths to the door, but Serafin ignores it. He instead taps his wrist, spinning up the caretaker software, and checks on Billy, who is in his room, playing with Roary and less intelligent toys.
Serafin taps his throat.
“Billy,” he says, but the boy is lost in his imaginings and doesn’t notice. One of the dolls makes a heroic leap from the edge of the bed; Roary jumps to catch it in his not-so-fearsome jaws, but its fall is interrupted by another figure swooping in to save the day. It’s easy for Billy to get lost in his reveries — he’s like Rita, in that way.
“Billy!” Serafin says, more loudly this time. “Come see me in the living room now, please.”
Billy does as he’s told. “Hi jiddo!” Billy says, finally noticing the slowly pulsing lights and floating warnings. “What’s going on?”
“Probably just a drill. But do you see the line? We need to follow it outside.”
This is the UFA Emergency Response Protocol System. This is a yellow alert. Please remain calm and follow the emergency directives. Thank you for your cooperation.
“What’s that?” Billy asks, surprised, as he follows Serafin out the door.
Has his mother taught him nothing? Has he really never seen an emergency alert before? Mitchell was never attacked in the war, and never seriously under threat like Foale or Sharman or Sellers, but Serafin would have expected them to at least run the children through the basics.
“That’s a message from the ship,” Serafin explains. “It lets us know when something is wrong, and lets us know what we need to do to make sure we stay safe.”
“What are we doing?”
“Outside, by the looks of things.”
Down the hall, the young postdoc in 423 is pulling a robe over her purple loungewear, watching the families pass by. When she sees Serafin, she smiles and waves.
“Hello, Mister Serafin! And good afternoon to you, Billy!”
“It’s an emergency!” Billy says, excited.
“It sure is!” the woman says. She glances at Serafin. “Any idea what the problem might be?”
Power surge. Life support malfunction. Centrifuge breakdown. Breach. Radiation leak. Another riot. Uprisers. Pirates. None of them really fit.
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Serafin says, with a polite smile.
The line guides them to the elevator, and then aft and spinward to the Rounds, where a small crowd has already gathered. The students don’t seem too concerned — they sit and chat about what might be going on. Some of them order baba ghanoush from the carts. Near the garden, a few are even tossing a ball around.
Serafin stops near the water clock. After a brief pause, the message updates:
This is the UFA Emergency Response Protocol System. This is a yellow alert. Please remain calm and await further instructions. Thank you for your cooperation.
While they wait, Serafin tries calling Lucy and JJ. No answer. Cordwainer responds, but doesn’t know anything.
“Can we go back upstairs?” Billy asks.
“Why?”
“I forgot Roary.”
“Don’t worry about Roary, he’ll be fine.”
Billy starts whining about the toy, but Serafin ignores him. A few peacekeepers are standing at the entrance of the tunnel underneath the amphitheater that leads to Odom Hall, but they’re as baffled as the students, and very uncomfortable with the abusive treatment one of the tenures is giving them.
“We have a right to know if we’re in danger!” the old professor barks, jabbing his finger into the taller peacekeeper’s chest. “I didn’t spend the last thirty years of my life teaching humans rights and civil liberties so some mewling myrmidon could keep me in the dark!”
“It’s exo,” the peacekeeper whispers. “Something exo. That’s all I know, sir! That’s all they’ve told us!”
Serafin doesn’t like that: exo means that whatever the problem is, it’s something outside of the ship. That narrows down the list considerably, and most of what remains is extremely bad.
“Follow me, Billy,” he says, taking the boy toward the tunnel. He’s not sure where he’s going, but he definitely doesn’t want to stay here. The docks, perhaps. He checks the flight tracker map, spinning it with his free hand; it looks like they’ve entered the Phobos graveyard. But there’s no other ships anywhere that he can see—
Billy stops, tugging insistently on Serafin’s jacket.
“Jiddo, look!” Billy wails. “Look! Look!”
Serafin looks up.
Up above, the leviathan plunges down toward the Augustine, closer and closer until it completely dwarfs the blackness of space and there is nothing left but the machine, vast and horrible. Only a fraction of the asymmetrical ship is now visible, but Serafin recognizes it instantly:
An Iblis warship.
And not just any warship — an Infernalis dreadnought. No two alike, although they do share the same cruel architecture, like a cross between a broken ribcage and a spider, full of spikes and writhing appendages, its spires lit by its own malevolent pulsing lights.
The Infernalis are the largest ships ever assembled, packed full of an endless assortment of not only conventional munitions, but also the most cruel, most advanced anti-human technology the solar system has ever seen: Screamers and Gaunts and Savagers, a menagerie of abominations designed not only to maim and kill, but to break the human spirit.
The screaming begins.
Some try to run, others cower. Some can only stare in shock, unable to turn their eyes away. As the attacking ship draws closer, it adjusts its trajectory to match the Archimedes, quickly adjusting its form and stretching itself obscenely to maximize its surface volume, transforming into a hand with a hundred twisted, broken fingers. It reaches out for the ship, firing off thousands of tiny glittering drones, shimmering and flashing, each pulse calculated to induce disorientation, nausea, and fear.
From the glittering, seething heart of the vessel, bio-mechanical tendrils burst forth with astonishing speed; some are clearly off-course, but several will strike true — Serafin doesn’t see it land, but the impact from one shakes the entire ship hard enough to distort the gravity briefly, turning down into left and then left into nothing until the spinners take over again and everything comes crashing back to the ground.
The window-view abruptly switches off.
Serafin picks himself up, hands scraped and somewhat winded but otherwise none the worst for wear. Billy, remarkably, has managed to land on his feet, but he folds his hands around his legs and starts crying. He is not alone in this: many of the students are sobbing and wailing now.
The impact of the Infernalis latching on has tipped over some of the food carts; one has landed on a young man near by, who is howling as people gather and try to lift it off of him. Others are fully unconscious, having landed badly; a handful appear to have simply fainted dead away.
The yellow lights turn to red.
This is the UFA Emergency Response Protocol System.
This is a red alert.
Serafin kneels, placing a hand on Billy’s forehead.
“Billy, don’t look. You can’t look. It will make you sick if you do, understand?”
“It’s a monster!” Billy cries. “I thought they were all gone!”
“I thought so too,” Serafin says. “We need to go. Now.”
Serafin starts to move, but Billy doesn’t follow. He’s having trouble focusing — the adults around him are panicking and it’s making him panic as well. Serafin takes him by the shoulder and looks him in the eye.
“Billy. Pay attention to me.”
“Is momma safe?”
“Yes. She’s fine. She’s not on board, remember? Now, listen: this is an emergency. I need you to pay very close attention to me.” He tries to summon up some of his old ASF bark. “You do what I say, as soon as I say it. Follow orders, no matter what. Like a space marine. Can you be a space marine for me, Billy?”
“Yes.” Billy is still crying, but that’s fine. He can cry all he wants, as long as he does what he’s told.
“Good. Now, we need to leave. Right now.”
Serafin guides Billy into the tunnel, but ten feet in he realizes they’ve closed the blast doors that lead to Odom Hall. He almost can’t believe it — in all his years on Firnas, he’s never seen the tunnels closed.
But the fleet’s been attacked by an Infernalis before.
Serafin tries to retreat, but a proper crowd has gathered at the entrance, and Serafin can’t quite get through. He tries to shove his way out but gets shoved back — a crowd means a possible crowd crush, this is no good, no good — and Serafin starts to feel panic himself, but he then he relents, letting the crowd carry them until he sees an opportunity:
Metal benches. Plenty strong. Serafin pushes roughly, guiding Billy to them.
“Billy, get under here.”
He stands guard while Billy crawls, offering a few nasty elbows to keep people away until the boy is safely installed.
The crowd is growing thicker.
“Watch your fingers,” Serafin says.
“Yes sir.” Billy bunches his fingers into small, round pink fists.
Serafin’s proximals are doing their best to help him with the mob, but there’s simply too many people now. He takes a step to avoid a runner but then an overstuffed bag hits him hard in the back of the shoulder, sending him spinning into the crowd and dragging him deeper in closer to the doors. He barely manages to grab onto a trash can and pull himself into a corner behind one of the support columns.
The screaming is getting louder, echoing horribly in the tunnel. He sees one of the peacekeepers trip and fall nearby — the man tries to get up but a foot pushes his head against the floor, hard, and then he disappears in the endless shifting waves of legs.
Serafin closes his eyes. Work the problem.
Door’s locked.
Unlock the door.
He doesn’t want to risk going for the controls on his arm, so he shouts instead: “Emergency comms! Contact Francis Soames!”
Soames answers, praise God.
“I really can’t talk right now, Mister Serafin—”
“Francis, listen to me,” Serafin says. “I’m in the tunnel leading to the Rounds. There’s a crowd in here and the doors are locked. I need you to open them immediately.”
“There’s a lockdown—”
“You can override it!” Serafin shouts. The throng is pressing closer now, and even in his narrow hiding space, he can feel the heat as the bodies begin to press tighter and tighter against him. “Do it now, or people are going to die!”
The line goes silent.
Has he disconnected? Are we on our own?
The bodies are pressing against him now, and he cannot move. Someone is shoving but it’s not doing any good, every movement makes the mass of bodies press more tightly together. He feels lightheaded.
The doors slide open. There’s a wonderful rush of air as the mob begins to move again, and soon enough the tunnels empty out.
Serafin staggers back to the bench, where Billy is still safely tucked away. He pats the boy down to make sure hasn’t been harmed, and then half-drags, half-carries him out of the tunnel, taking care to make sure he doesn’t get a good look at the bodies on the ground. Can’t be sure if they’re alive or not. No time to check.
“Mister Serafin?” Soames’ voice is in his ear again. “Mister Serafin?”
“We’re clear,” Serafin says, shakily. “We’re clear. Thank you, Francis. We’ve got injuries here, might want to see if you can get a medical team over—”
There’s a terrible boom and a rushing sound on the other end of the line. The line goes quiet, but it doesn’t disconnect, which hopefully means Soames is still alive.
“Francis?”
Serafin feels his hands trembling, tries to shake out the adrenaline. He looks down — spilled water from the water clock is rushing around his feet.
“Oh no! No! No!” Soames wails.
“Soames?” Serafin says
“He’s dead! Mister Serafin! He’s dead! He’s dead!”
“Who’s dead?”
“Chief Atta! They got him! Oh, merciful God, they got him, Mister Serafin! They punched right through the hull — the Iblis, it’s fully latched onto third ring — we don’t stand a chance — oh, Lord, my girls—”
Serafin takes a deep breath. “Mister Soames. What’s the plan?”
“The plan?” Soames cries. “What plan? In the name of God, it’s an Infernalis! The Khobar doesn’t stand a chance against something like that!”
“Francis, I need you to pay attention,” Serafin says. “Who’s the ranking security officer right now?”
“I… I don’t know!”
“Then it might as well be you,” Serafin says. “If Atta is dead, then the system should grant situational clearances to officers as needed. So you’ll be in command of your sector until you find someone better. You should be able to request authorization on your console.”
“Yes! I see it! But what are we going to do? This is an Infernalis, we weren’t trained for an Infernalis—”
“You have two priorities. First: you need to pull the attack contingency routines so the system can help you through this. Second: you need to get as many people off the ship as possible.”
“We don’t have enough transports for everyone!”
“No. But everyone who leaves will have a fighting chance.”
Soames goes quiet again. Another shudder runs through the ship.
“Francis,” Serafin says. “I’ve got my grandson with me. I need to get him out of here. What are my options?”
“Third ring’s airlocks are completely offline,” Soames says. “One of the arms is blocking the bridge to Tindale Mina—”
“What’s left?”
“There’s…. there’s a hard-burner at the top of Almani!” Soames says, at last. “I’m assigning you clearances that should get you through the lockdown, but you’d better hurry — you’ve only got about twenty minutes!”
“Got it. Thank you, Francis.”
“Good luck, Mister Serafin! I’m going to—”
The line goes dead.
Serafin picks up Billy. The boy’s a little too heavy for that, but what choice do they have? He unlocks the limits on his prosthetic to help with the load.
“Billy, we’re going to first ring. We need to move fast, so I need you to be brave for me just a little bit longer, Can you do that for me?”
Billy wraps his arms around Serafin’s neck. “Your hair is pokey,” he complains.
Serafin didn’t bother to shave today. “Sorry,” says Serafin, adjusting his grip. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Serafin starts to run.
A pack of students rushes by, carrying one of their friends, who is bleeding very badly and appears to be unconscious. The people-movers are offline, so Serafin and Billy move on foot toward the bow, where they don’t see anyone else until they reach the transit bridge that leads to first ring.
It’s a mess. The impact has knocked most of the vertical gardens off the walls, and there are panels on the ceiling that have fallen to the floor, exposing the cables and piping of the ship. There are three bodies on the ground — no vitals, Serafin’s combat vision reports.
There is one other person, a young woman, who is still alive, tucked behind one of the information pillars, but Serafin doesn’t notice her until it’s too late.
“Get back!” she exclaims.
“No,” Serafin says firmly. “We need to keep moving—”
“Get back!” she screams, lifting a small pistol and raising it toward him.
Serafin steps back, stumbling and nearly falling.
The young woman wearing a white dress, which is stained with blood. She’s been crying, and her long dark hair is completely free, tangled and falling across her face. Her face and hair are bloody and something wrong with her eye.
“Easy!” Serafin says, trying to lean so he can transfer enough of Billy’s weight onto his hip so he can raise a shaking hand. “Don’t shoot!”
Billy squeezes him tight, so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“I flinched,” the woman sobs, the pistol shaking in her hand. “I flinched, I flinched, I flinched. We were supposed to go together but I flinched… they left me, they left me, they left me… why did I flinch?”
It must be her friends on the ground. It’s not hard to put the puzzle together. He isn’t surprised: some of the ASF troopers made similar arrangements when they faced capture by the Iblis. Understandable, really, considering the alternative.
Reflexively, Serafin checks for her name, but the roll call is offline.
Do it the old fashioned way:
“What’s your name?”
“Sashi,” the woman says, staring at the bodies on the ground. Her arm is trembling.
“Sashi,” says Serafin, gently. “My name’s Jim. This is my grandson Billy. I know you’re scared, but you don’t need to… you don’t need to do what you’re thinking about doing. There’s an emergency shuttle in first ring. You can come with us—”
Her wide-eyed gaze returns to him. “How do I know you’re not one of them? How do I know you’re not a Razor?”
God, how he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask him that.
There’s a reasonable answer to this question, but she’s not in a reasonable frame of mind. And the fear is hitting him harder now, slowing him down. He might be able to disarm her if he rushes her, but he doesn’t want to risk it — not with the boy in his arms. She’s got her feet planted and her knees bent just right; she’s got training. She knows how to shoot.
Don’t let her see your arm.
If he wasn’t holding Billy, there’s so much he could do, but he is holding Billy, and he is trembling so badly he is worried he might slip and drop the boy. Serafin has been in worse situations, but this feels unbearable, because the boy is here, in his arms, and it’s making it hard to think.
This would be so easy, if Billy wasn’t here.
“It’s just me,” Serafin says. “I’m a human being, flesh and blood. And my grandson — you don’t think he’s one of them, surely? He’s only a child.”
“That doesn’t matter!” the woman sobs. She holds the gun against her chest, staring out at the stars. “He could be. They could make them like children, or you could have taken him… the games, the games, the games they play! The ways they find to torture us! But I won’t let them take me. I won’t! I served as a nurse, in the war. I’ve seen what they do!”
She points the pistol at them again.
“Wait!” Serafin shouts, twisting to try to shield Billy as best he can. “Please. I beg you. I won’t stop you! I won’t. But I just… I just want to get to first ring.”
Carefully, slowly, he moves toward the far wall, putting as much space between them as he can.
“I’m just going to put my back against the wall, like this,” Serafin says. “And I’ll just… I’ll just slide past you. Can we do that, Sashi? I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to get to the other side of the bridge. I’ll go nice and slow — you can watch us the whole time. Can we do that? Please?”
She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t protest as Serafin begins to move, carefully stepping over the fallen ferns and ivy, using his free hand to track his progress against the wall, counting each column as he goes.
Step, step, step.
She seems to lose interest, instead kneeling, to caress the face of one of the bodies on the ground with her free hand. Serafin could probably move faster, but decides it’s best to avoid sudden movements.
“I’m sorry,” Sashi sobs.
“Thank you,” Serafin says, when they’re on the other side. He says it softly, because he can’t quite get enough air in his lungs. He can feel Billy’s heart beating wildly.
She looks up, smiling through the tears. “He looks like a nice young man.”
The doors to the security vestibule slide open, and Serafin steps through.
“Sashi… you don’t have to do this. You could come with us.”
Sashi places the butt of the pistol against her heart.
“If you really loved him, you wouldn’t let them take him.”
“Sashi—”
“You should hurry,” she says.
The doors slide closed.
This is a red alert.
The first grey security bulkhead slides open and let them into the security checkpoint. If there are supposed to be guards here, they have abandoned their posts.
The automated scanners kick in, humming and whirring as they scan Serafin and Billy. Serafin sets his grandson down. The boy’s eyes are wide, and he appears to be in mild shock, but he still sits down when Serafin tells him to.
Serafin knows he should say something, but anything comforting he might say right now would sound dishonest, and anything honest would only frighten the child even more.
They’ve had conversations about death — it’s been hard to avoid them, with Ashley’s memorial and all. He gets the impression Billy grasps the general concept, but they haven’t really explored myriad grim varieties — torture, murder, suicide. And the possibility, the unavoidable, undeniable, increasingly likely possibility of it happening to him, that it might be waiting, today, here, on the Augustine — they’ve kept that from him.
And for good reason, don’t you think? He’s a child. Doesn’t he deserve that? To be kept innocent, as long as they can manage?
But Billy’s smart. He might not be able to articulate it, but he can sense it: that there may be no more days in the park, no more games with his friends, no more hugs from his mother. That every minute he is experiencing now, however confusing or painful or frightening, is electric and precious, because there may not be many left.
The boy feels it. Serafin can tell. Serafin has felt it many times before. It’s not just fear, although it is a close companion to fear; it is a sense of the inevitable, of the void stretching out before a man thrown out of an airlock, the endless and eternal nothing of it all.
The boy takes his hand, and Serafin smiles sadly. There are no words, but instead, they arrive at a mutual, silent understanding: we both feel it, but we have to keep moving.
Find the words later, Serafin decides.
The scanners finish, chiming to let them know they’ve been cleared to move on. Serafin checks the timer he’s set: they’ve got less than ten minutes, but it shouldn’t take that long to get to the Almani module if they hurry. He puts his hand on the exit to encourage the biometric readers to hurry up, but the door flashes up an access denied message in bright red letters.
Serafin requests an override, but is denied:
This area has been depressurized. Please relocate to a safe zone immediately.
Serafin flicks up the ship’s map, hurriedly skimming through to the new security view he has access to. The Infernalis is firmly attached to third ring, with one of its massive, grotesque arms wrapped around the Tindale Mina gangway. But some of its drones, which appear as small, twisted thorns on the small display, have penetrated the hull and lodged themselves in other areas of the ship — including the area on the other side of the door.
Serafin takes a step back, eyes wide.
Iblis drones typically carry small units. Savagers. Screamers. Razors. They could be tracking people down right now, tearing them apart.
Can’t stay here. Can’t go back. People mover’s offline, but maybe they could go through the tunnel? If they found suits, maybe they could make a run on the outside of the hull, get over that way? But there’d be no guarantee they could get back in….
Serafin returns to the map, trying to figure out where to go. Service corridors? No.
Think about it: The ship is divided into three rings, each with a different rotational speed. There’s no way across the second and first ring because at the core of the central axis is the zig racing arena, which—
Wait.
The arena has access ports on both sides. And it appears — Serafin double-checks to make sure — that there’s an access shaft from their current location that should lead them directly to it.
“Billy. Let’s go.”
Serafin pulls open the hatch. He takes too long trying to decide if he or Billy should go first, ultimately concluding it should be him, because he can catch the boy if he falls. But the boy doesn’t fall, so he’s wasted more time for nothing.
He’s making mistakes. He can’t make mistakes. He has to keep Billy safe.
They make their way through the shafts until they spill out into the empty locker room, where Serafin stops to quickly strap on a pair of mag-cleats. He debates the merits of trying to find suits but doubts they’ll have any that would fit the boy. It should be alright anyway, the arena is pressurized.
He does make sure to grab a grapple gun and secure it to his belt, just in case.
Serafin and Billy enter the small circular entry port. The hatch slides open. Serafin kneels, patting the back of his shoulder. “Here, I’ll carry you through.”
Billy climbs onto his back, arms around his neck. He’s a little heavy, but that won’t matter shortly.
Serafin climbs out carefully, making sure he has a firm grasp on the handrails, reorienting himself so he can firmly plant his feet on the first platform, ignoring the way his stomach complains about how up and down have suddenly lost all meaning.
He looks up at the course, checking to make sure there isn’t anything lurking in the dark. Only the emergency lights are on, but that should be enough. Some of the obstacles have been stowed away but others, like the spinner, are still going, since it’s more effort to stop their momentum than it is to simply let them keep going.
It will be easy. All they need to do is get to the other side, and they’ll be in first ring.
It should be easy. Serafin is certified in variable gravity maneuvers, but he’s out of practice and he’s never been what you would call a master of the art. He starts calculating, trying to figure out the best way to get across. What can he skip? What should he avoid?
The spinner is probably the quickest way across, but it also has the highest potential for going badly. He could use the handrail and climb all the way around the framework to the exit, but that would take far too long. Their best chance, he decides, is to jump to the platforms that are locked in.
“Hold on,” Serafin says.
Billy holds on.
Serafin jumps to the first platform, and it isn’t too bad. The second doesn’t go so great — he’s too worried about making sure his aim is perfect, and he doesn’t push off quite hard enough, but it still turns out alright, even though they have to flip upside-down to make the landing. The third one is further away, but he hits it easily, making sure to bend his knees to absorb the impact.
There is a scraping, creaking sound, followed by a strange, unsettling scraping. At first, he dismisses as something wrong with the course, until Billy starts screaming.
“It’s back! It’s back!”
Serafin looks up.
One of the Infernalis’ long, massive limbs is sliding across the outside of the course, visible through the glass, a sickening, segmented mass which branches into smaller appendages, like a tree made of twisting, monstrous, mechanical appendages. It is covered in writhing hooks and malevolent barbs that flash and shimmer in the dark.
Searching, perhaps. Or maybe hunting.
The word terror is insufficient what Serafin feels at this moment — terror is what one feels when a predator lunges out of the shadows on a moonless night. But the Infernalis is what all predators would pray to, had they the capacity for worship.
In the terrestrial age of science, scientists believed that humans in distress reverted to fight, flight, or freeze. But modern science has discovered a fourth reaction, which occurs when man was confronted by something so overwhelming and beyond their comprehension that their mind rebels against its existence. This reaction arrives in two forms — at its best, it is apotheosis, the Mi’raj, the feeling of standing in the presence of the one true God; at its worst, it is the astonishment of the prophets when confronted with apocalyptic visions, or the horror of witnessing a mushroom cloud rising above your home.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry.
“Don’t look,” Serafin whispers, as much to himself as the boy. “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.”
He jumps for the next platform, missing badly, has to pull the grapple gun and fire it at a checkpoint ring to reel himself back on track. While he resets the gun, he recalculates: if he risks a jump through the spinner, that should take them straight to the exit port. And maybe the fear helps him, giving him enough adrenaline to risk the jump. They pass through cleaning, and sail, sail, sail, but his aim is off, ever so slightly, and instead of the exit port they hit the platform next to it, so hard his mag-cleats slip and he has to drop down to grab the handrails.
He feels Billy’s arms unwind around his neck, but quickly spins and grabs one of the boy’s small arms, pulling him back.
“Get in! Now!”
The boy pulls himself into the funnel and Serafin follows, just before the hatch snaps shut behind him, and then they’re sliding, sliding, and gravity returns and now they’re falling as well. Serafin’s back twists when they hit the crash pads, a fleeting pain, but sharp enough to make him cry out.
There is a terrible crash and he doesn’t need to check: the Infernalis has punctured the course with its grotesque tendril. Any slower and they would be dead.
Any slower and we will be dead.
“Just a little further,” Serafin groans, trying to encourage the boy as they crawl out of the foam toward solid ground. “Almost there, Billy.”
First ring appears to have suffered the least from the attack — it still looks beautiful, even bathed in red warning lights. Serafin sees a small crowd trying to make their way to second ring; he calls to them, trying to warn them, but they don’t pay any attention to him.
The Serafins arrive at Almani module with two minutes to spare, dashing through the abandoned offices until they find the segmented, octagonal passageway that leads to shuttle. Billy starts to go on ahead, but Serafin stops him when he sees the student on the ground.
“Billy. Get behind me. Now.”
The student looks up at them, reaching out an arm. His legs are kicking spasmodically. He’s wearing black robes that seem to be melting at first, but a second glance reveals it’s blood, pouring from his chest and mouth, pooling over the floor. He tries to say something to them but all he can manage is a weak, piteous wheezing, the blood bubbling as he tries to force air out of his punctured lungs.
Combat vision tells Serafin what’s already obvious: the student can’t be saved.
There’s no sign of Iblis — but there are two thick campus security drones guarding the airlock. They’re quite similar to the models Serafin saw at the riots, but newer, with sleeker lines and smoother movement.
Unlike the riot drones, however, these are not wearing padding, and they also have large guns mounted on their forearms.
Serafin raises his hands. “Interlocutor Jim Serafin!” he shouts. “I am here with my grandson, Billy Tick! Let us pass!”
The sentry on the left responds, its voice booming from its metal chassis:
“Your identity is confirmed, but you do not have the proper clearance to come aboard. Your request is denied.”
“This is an emergency!” Serafin says. “We are in imminent danger — UFA Article 12 requires you to either let us on board or pass our request on to the senior ranking human being currently on board.”
“Understood,” the sentry says. “Transmitting your message now.”
It falls silent, a small icon appearing to indicate it’s waiting for a response. Serafin checks the timer: they’ve still got a minute. There’s no point in checking the roll call to see who’s on board with consensus down, but he tries to check anyway.
“Interlocutor Serafin: your message has been reviewed,” the sentry says at last. “Unfortunately, your request has been denied. This area is reserved for authorized personnel only. Please leave immediately.”
Time’s up. But the ship’s not leaving; neither is Serafin.
“There must be some kind of mistake. Let me talk to someone else,” Serafin pleads. “Is Dean Kannon on board? Let me speak to Kannon.”
“Your request was heard, in accordance with Article 12, and was denied. You do not have authorization to be here,” the sentry intones. “Please leave this area immediately.”
Serafin wonders what it would take to bring one of these drones down. With time, with help, with the right hardware, he’s confident it could be done, but even then it would probably involves casualties.
And he can’t risk that. Not now. Not with the boy here.
Serafin hears footsteps behind him — he turns, to see a frantic middle-aged man dash past him, spattering blood when his show strikes the center of the growing puddle on the floor.
“Wait!” Serafin shouts, trying to warn him, but it’s not necessary — the man dashes past the sentries and onto the ship.
Authorized.
“Come back!” Serafin shouts, frantically. “Please! Let us in!”
An alarm sounds, and the sentries stomp backward, into the airlock.
“Please,” Serafin says, resting a hand against Billy’s shoulder. “Just let the boy on board, then. Just the boy. I’ll stay here.”
“Jiddo?” The boy looks up, surprised and upset.
“It’s fine,” Serafin says. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He motions for Billy to go ahead. The boy takes a step or two, but stops, trembling, when the sentries raise their arms.
“You are not authorized to board this vessel. Stop immediately, or we will open fire. You will not receive a second warning.”
These Damned machines!
“Billy!” Serafin says. “Stop. Don’t move.”
Billy freezes.
There is a hissing sound, and bulkhead doors begin to slide shut.
“He’s only a child!” Serafin shouts. “In the name of God, just let him pass!”
The sentries don’t respond.
The doors close, with a heavy, reverberating thud, followed by the clunk as the locking mechanisms engage.
There is nothing the Serafins can do now except watch, helplessly, as their last hope for survival rockets away.
It feels pointless, but Serafin takes Billy out of the corridor and into a small repair lab, where blanks sit disassembled and broken. There’s a security cabinet here, marked with the peacekeeper logo; Serafin uses his clearance to open it, finding a nice collection of body armor and high-end rifles, in addition to some piercer rounds.
It might buy them an extra minute. But it won’t stop what’s coming.
He loads up, and finds a helmet for Billy.
“It’s too big,” Billy complains.
“Sorry.”
This is the UFA Emergency Response Protocol System. This is a red alert. Please remain calm and await further instructions.
Serafin slumps against the wall, exhausted. He asks med-sense for a kick, but it doesn’t help much; he’s spent too much time on the red line. Close to the limit.
Only so much you can take.
“I’m scared,” says Billy.
“I’m scared too.”
“Really?”
Serafin nods.
Billy sits down next to Serafin and rests his head against the wall. “I thought the bad robots were all dead,” Billy mumbles.
“They are, sort of,” says Serafin. “But they’re machines. They’re not really alive in the same way people are alive.”
“Oh. Why do they… why do they want to hurt us?”
Serafin closes his eyes. He hasn’t always been a fan of how much Lucy has coddled the boy, but the Iblis conflict started before he was born. It seems absurd that she hasn’t told him more. He needs to find out sometime.
The boy has a right to know what’s going to kill him.
Serafin shakes the thought away. “Well, you know, the people who made them, they weren’t happy about how things were being run. You know how the solar system is divided between the Capitalists and the Communists?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the people who made the Iblis thought that both sides were wrong. They believed all human beings are bad, and that it would be better if machines ran everything. So they made special war machines to try to take over so they could be in charge.”
“And that was the war was about?”
Serafin nods. “Yes. That’s right. But it wasn’t like the old wars. In the old wars, it was always people who made the decisions. And some of them were good people and some of them were bad, but when people fight, eventually they reach the point when both sides decide they don’t want to fight anymore, and they stop and make peace.”
There is massive banging sound, and the room shakes. Serafin decides to ignore it.
“The Iblis weren’t designed like that,” he continues. “The Iblis are the kind of machines who keep doing what they’re made to do until they succeed, or something stops them.”
Billy looks up at Serafin, worried. “Are they going to kill us because we’re bad?”
“No!” Serafin says, surprised. He feels something break inside of him, and he pulls the boy close, fighting back tears, hugging him hard, holding his helmet so it doesn’t fall off. “You’re not bad. You’re good. You’re wonderful. I love you very much. I know I don’t say that very often, but it’s true. I love you, and your mother and father love you, and your uncle loves you. No matter what happens, I want you to understand, we all love you. Don’t ever forget that, little one.”
How wonderful it feels, to be able to say that!
“I love you too, jiddo,” Billy says, hugging him.
Something bangs against the hull of the ship, far away, and the broken blanks rattle and shake.
“Can you sing me a song?” Billy asks.
“What do you want me to sing?”
“I don’t know.”
Serafin thinks about it. He doesn’t know a lot of songs, but he tries his best:
Mama, zamanha gaya
Gaya, baedeh shwayya
Gayba la’ab wa hagat
Gayba ma’aha shanta
Fiha wezzza wa batta
Bet’awwel wak wak wak!
He struggles with the song — his throat is raw, his voice is hoarse — but he makes it through, all the same. Billy sings along, clapping with the melody, and despite how tired and miserable he is, Serafin can’t stop smiling.
Ten minutes later, the alarms turn off.