Vibrations pulse over my hand and trickle down my arm, rousing me from my wide-eyed stare-down with the overhead. I let it buzz, tickling my hand until it's numb. The swirl of yesterday's frustrations, today's complications, and tomorrow's unknowns weigh me down like cinder blocks on my feet. Feet that are already so swollen, my boots have become the worst of my uniform troubles.

The vortex of confusion creates centrifugal forces that pin me to my thin mattress despite the roaring agony shooting through my spine. I stretch, my shoulders popping as the un-attended backache flares again. I should see one of the Medics about it, but I don't want anyone to put hands on me — not when my son is growing and my bump is centimeters away from exposing me. But the pain from waking each morning with stiff bones makes sleeping a new form of torture. I glare at the overhead one last time before attempting to sit up.

I knock my head on the shelf above. The worn copy of Brave New World drops into my lap. With shaking hands, I grip it. Since discovering the HEL-HOC program and what Moyra's been up to all these years, an old anger toward Dean flares up like a reoccurring infection. I've been harboring the ire since that day, letting it filter through my blood until it reaches my heart. I've had no time to list the reasons I want to forgive him. I want him here only so I can remind him how his single act of "protectiveness" thwarted my career. I want to grab his shirt in my hands so I can shove him away. I want to slam a mug down so the glass can shatter between us. I want to kick a chair and watch it skitter away when he leaves the room. I want to run up to him and kiss him. Kiss him hard enough to leave a mark. Then I might want to shove him against a wall, leap up, wrap my legs around his waist, and when we're eye-to-eye, pull his hair, flinging his head back, consuming him like a renegade flame down his throat.

I close my eyes and inhale, trying to calm the raging hormones as they curl through my gut to descend between my legs.

Today is not the day to think about this. Today, we put our lives in the hands of our Xani navigators and pray they'll successfully toss us into the tracks of the dark matter super-highway.

Hands? These things don't have hands. Claws? Do we put our lives in their knife-claws? I fling the book away.

I rise, dress, brush my teeth, strap my vest on a little more hard than I mean to. When done, I can hardly breathe. My clothes are too tight, it's not necessary to dress with extra force. The straining buttons work hard enough that I don't need to treat the uniform with more brutal punishment.

I peer down. With my battle dress uniform, plate carrier, and full gear, no one could tell there's anyone in there but me. Twenty weeks along and I can still cover the bump with a few pounds of gear. I consider myself blessed by the Lady and every single pebble on her damn pile for that small miracle. But today, as I adjust the plates in front, I can't breathe. It's too snug. It's too uncomfortable and stiff and hot and I feel like I'm going to lose my shit if I keep standing in my cabin and thinking about how my clothes rub against every inch of my skin. Just go.

"Good morning, Commander," Coodi says as she falls into step with me on the way to the Nest. "We're on schedule and should be ready to hit the tracks in three hours." She's all business today. I don't blame her. This is Earth's first attempt at real space travel.

The buttons and blinking lights of SCOPE panels flicker as we enter the gray-bland control tower. Everyone sits with tense, hunched shoulders over their terminals. Those who click commands on keypads direct units of our crowd control enforcement to their designated places. They speak in low whispers, ensuring all protocol is followed for this, our giant leap across the galaxy. The large window overlooking the marketplace is vacant. I stand by it to stare down at the vendors locking their shops as the procedure document dictates.

"Perfect." I mumble this to myself to finally accept that yes, for once, the task is being executed according to plan. "It seems a little funny that a few bolts and locks will keep all their stuff from being obliterated. I still don't get how this thing works."

"Magnets, Commander. Something about magnets in the dark matter."

I hum a reply. All I know is that it better work. This ship better hold itself together tight enough to keep us from imploding or turning to space-mush.

We wait in silence as the ship shuts down. I brace for disaster, anticipating the sudden buzz from the coms, informing me that something critical is malfunctioning, we're on fire, or a fatal plague has broken out in Quads 1 through 4.

Nothing.

Tendon by tendon, I allow some of the tension to ease from of my shoulders. I didn't even realize I had been holding so much anticipation in them until the twenty-minute countdown approaches. In twenty minutes, ARC10 will be hurled into another section of this wide, wide galaxy.

The Nest quiets as we wait for the confirmations to begin.

McCroy's stoic voice rings through the room's speakers loud and clear. "Quad one secured."

I nod to my right-hand woman.

"Copy that, McCroy. . . Quad one is secured." Coodi is a piece of art like this. With her hands folded neatly behind her back, her chin raised and her eyes unfocused but wild, she controls the room. She gazes at nothing but somehow seems to be gathering intel every inch of the space. All the SCOPE operators look to her as she stands in the middle of the tower like this whole thing is some rare performance of an old, exotic dance from another planet.

"Quad two secured."

"Copy that, Love . . . Quad two is secured."

It ends quickly, and soon, we're all strapped into our seats, waiting for whatever happens next. Sometimes, not knowing what's coming drives me more insane than knowing exactly what kind of horrors anticipate my arrival. This time, however, I'm in full battle dress uniform, just as Coodi and the rest of the VIPERs are. I'm strapped into the Nest where I was supposed to be during launch off Earth. I can watch Coodi and the rest of SCOPE as we wait for the lurch outlined in the flip books.

This is the part where we're expected to sit quietly like good little occupants and wait for our hosts to shift into the next gear, flinging us away from our home planet.

It hits me that this is the point of no return. Earth disappeared from view long ago, but there was always some quiet comfort in knowing it wasn't too far behind. There was always that small hope that if we failed to survive this far out, we could always retreat to our original shelter, our tail between our legs. We could live quietly underground, never popping up to cause trouble again. We'd disappear, but we'd be alive. For a little while, anyway.

Silence.

More silence.

Coodi turns her head to throw me a questioning look. She's strapped in on my right and has her hands on her knees. Prim and procedural until death.

"I'm sure it's coming. All we can do is wait," I say to the room. The seconds that expand before us become an infinite plane of hyper-awareness. Like there's nothing there, just more quiet, more waiting. We do nothing. At this point, our future is out of our control. We know it. We feel it. But it doesn't seem like we're on the same page on how we deal with it.

I scan the room, registering the quiet fear, the wince of pain just on the periphery of their eyes. For a second, I realize that I don't share their terror.

No. Not even close.

I attempt to school my features, to remain passive, my face a blank slate when my inside is running laps, kicking, leaping high and spinning with my arms out. I want to dance. I want barrel toward Simon, wrap my arms around him and squeeze. We're out of here. Before us is a brighter, bolder horizon.

The Earth can keep that festering death-pit. My eyes are locked on the space before us. There's a future ahead. Bring it. Give me the horizon. Give me the open space and the chance to blast off into something beautiful and unknown. My family is in that future. I want to grab it.

I clutch my straps tighter only to stop my fingers from finding the warm spot where my son rests inside me.

The whole ship lurches forward as if someone slapped it from behind — startling it like a cow with a cart. We jolt so hard, a few of the operators shriek out.

ARC10 shudders as if we're being locked into place. We're pegs trapped in snug slots, and within mere seconds, a heavy g-force knocks me up against my seat. I worry again, just for a second. I told Knuckles the jist of what would happen. I wanted to know if this form of travel would hurt my son.

"Voyaging by dark matter?" he asks, astounded. "You're sure? We are attaching this fine, stolid vessel to magnetic particles found in dark matter, and similar to how the matter throws light, we will jump galaxies?"

"Yes," I say, trying to sound like I know what he's talking about. Magnets aren't my thing. If whatever method we are being tossed around the universe has something to do with a carburetor or exhaust, sure. We can talk. Until then, I nod.

"Do you understand what this means?" His eyes are wide with the discovery.

"I really don't care," I say, leaning against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. "As long as it doesn't affect him, I couldn't give a turd in a toilet."

He gives me one of my favorite looks I like drawing out of him. The lowered brow, the subtle frown that's just a hint deeper than the normal one he was born wearing, and the eyes that peer over the rim of his silver, moony glasses.

"Honestly, Lorn. Do you believe the URE would send pregnant women on this mass exodus if they knew the journey would endanger their cargo? If there's anything the URE cherishes, it's new humans."

With this small speck of reassurance that wasn't actually very reassuring at all, I think about all the pregnant women on other ARCs who are enduring this exact same ship-tossing and hoping that they all make it out alive.

I barely manage to restrain myself from touching my belly. I squeeze the restraints tighter.

We stabilize for a second before lurching again.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

One last thrust into oblivion and we're still, floating somewhere in the universe like a dust particle.

My PAHLM vibrates.

[Incoming Message: PHAYOMO]

ALL CLEAR

I wonder if this is her pre-recorded message and Hayomo is actually dead, a puppet to the Xani. I wonder if she is a Xani and they've learned to wear her skin.

The thought and my already sensitive stomach send bile right up my esophagus. I swallow it back down. "All clear, SCOPE. Begin post-track procedures." I un-click myself from the seat and head to the center of the room, Coodi at my heels. "Coodi, clear the quads."

"Yes, Commander."

I peer through the large windows at the marketplace. It's eerie. There's no one there, but loose items dislodged from their restraints and flew to the floor, scattering all over the area, giving the marketplace the appearance of a pillaged town post-destruction.

"Commander!" Coodi's voice shouts from the other end of the room.

I turn to face her.

"The detainees escaped. The Crust are loose."

And there it is. I knew it wouldn't be too long before something horrible and irrevocably stupid would happen.

"Send all VIPER and security personnel to the brig A-SAP."

SCOPE immediately tap into their coms and spit my order around. One enlarges the video feed of the brig passageways as we watch the loonies in the first cell go spiraling around the room, waving their hands in the air and screaming joyfully at nothing. The surveillance is muted, but their glee is on full volume.

"How the fuck did they escape?" I say, leaning closer to the monitor. "Pull the feed."

"It was during the track locking, Commander," one of the operators states. He plays back the video. They're safe in their harnesses, dangling as they normally do. Martin looks around, cautious as if he's looking out for something. The others remain inattentive, tracking the movement of invisible creatures that seem to be climbing the bulkhead.

The screen blackens.

"This was when we latched," the operator says. "And this is when we came off the track." The video resumes, the empty cell's door swinging on its hinges. All the Crust sprint around the room laughing, grabbing the bars and rattling the doors of other cells. They are in hysterics.

The largest screen presents the live feed. Umpire, Grant, Norbit, McCroy, Flatts, Love, and Avant rush the brig, wrangling the cats.

"One is on the run." A SCOPE operator enlarges her view and throws it to the largest monitor displaying the other shitshow.

Of course.

Martin takes off down the passageways, pumping his arms wildly. What else did I expect? Not this, but something equally obnoxious.

"Where does he think he can go?" Coodi and I stare at the screen switching cameras each time Martin's frantic form exits one view and reappears in another. "Coodi, what happened to Cassie Winters?" I ask, crossing my arms again, shifting so my legs are spread apart a bit.

"She was released, Commander."

"I know she was released, but what happened after that?"

She shifts. "I don't know. You never gave us orders to follow her."

I should have. "Find her."

"Yes, Commander." Coodi disappears.

In the murmur of SCOPE's directions, the one directing McCroy stands out.

I hear her tell him to take a left.

In an instant, I decide to handle this on my own. McCroy will be there to back me up. "I'm cutting him off," I say to SCOPE, activating my coms as I rush out the Nest.

"Commander?" Coodi's voice is soft in my ears, both in real-life and in my coms. She vanishes from view as I leap off the lift and sprint toward Martin's direction.

It takes less than a minute for me to meet McCroy and run to the intersecting point. SCOPE instructs our movements as we take a sharp corner.

We arrive.

We hear Martin's syncopated footfalls through the passageways.

We prepare for confrontation.

When he appears around the corner and spots us, he doesn't pause but, with a lunatic's grin, rushes at me, clipping my side and throwing me against the wall.

His strength takes me by surprise as I slide to the deck. I was totally unprepared for that reaction.

McCroy pulls his gun from his holster while I struggle to stand. Martin's eyes switch back and forth between us. They're wide, black with bloodshot veins cutting the emptiness. He throws his head back and makes bird calls into the halls. Still in his place, he raises his hands and motions like he's trying to fly away.

We are a triad in a deadlock. Our chests rise and fall with heavy breath, but our feet remain rooted to their spots. In the silence, I attempt to calculate all the possible ways we can proceed without this turning into a disaster.

Tik tik tik tik tik tik

The faint ticking of metal legs clicking over metal walls binds me. Chills paralyze me from fingertips to toes. I pray they're only in my head. Please just be my imagination. Please let this be a nightmare.

Tik tik tik tik tik tik

They resonate louder through the passageway. McCroy stiffens at my side. He hears them too.

Not a nightmare. At least not one I can wake from.

"Worst timing." I cover my handgun. "I swear to the Lady they have the worst fucking timing. McCroy holster your weapon."

Martin turns to McCroy to watch him lower his handgun. There are a million questions floating around our heads as now the only armed one is Martin with his newfound strength.

The ticking echoes off the pipes and walls. It surrounds us. It approaches from behind, below, to my right, and circles around to my front. McCroy and I attempt to follow the sound with our ears while maintaining our sights on Martin. He doesn't seem to notice the tapping monster somewhere in our midst.

It stops. No one moves. We wait in silence to confirm it passed us.

My peripherals register one long strand of orange goo that stretches from above our heads. It hangs between us with its heavy, bulbous end. The glob falls to the floor and lands in the middle of our circle.

Tentatively, always expecting the worst, I look up.

The Xani twists its head and crunches the gears in its neck to get a good look at all of us who are gawking at it.

"Mister Clemmens—" I whisper, "—don't move."

Martin giggles.

The Xani spins its head around with a flaky glare.

The moment is so tense. Even SCOPE is speechless. They are not on familiar terms with the Xani. Not like me. I remember the last encounter with Warren and this monster just before launch. Just before we locked ourselves in a tin can with them. I hold back my vomit.

"Nobody move," I repeat.

We wait. Motionless. We may have all stopped breathing. Orange slime plunks against the metal deck. The Xani scans us, its neck cracking each inch it roves our circle. The head makes a full loop around a long, broken neck. When its eye-less sockets land on me, Martin snaps.

Flapping his arms like wings, he rushes across our circle toward me. Teeth bared and fingers stretched out, he cuts the space between us. The blood-red haze in his eyes become radioactive as he aims his twisted fingers for my face.

He halts when a massive knife slices him open from groin to gut.

Martin's crusty grin slips into a frown as he's raised from the ground, his feet dangling in the air. The Xani peers from behind the boy's head that slumps forward and rolls on his neck, his intestines unravel and puddle underneath his boots.

All I hear is the jittering of mechanical legs.

"Coodi to Commander Lorn. . . Come in?"

Martin's body slides off the curved blade of the Xani's front legs and drops into a pile of blood, limbs, guts, and exposed bone on the grated floor of ARC10's deck.

"Coodi to Commander Lorn. . . Come in?"

McCroy pales. We're next.

As we hold our ground, I realize we're hanging in the precarious precipice of a series of consequences that could be our total ruination while on this ship—

Option one — kill the Xani. Take the action before it kills us. Possibly break a tenuous truce that was supposed to carry us to our new home planet. Be stuck on ARC10 forever.

Option two — let the Xani go. Let it see its impunity. Let it realize it can get away with murder. Suffer the disapproval of everyone on the ship. Make it to NOHA with maybe some of the people of Earth still breathing.

"Commander Lorn?" McCroy's voice cracks as he whispers my name.

The Xani switches its gaze back and forth between us.

"What do we do?" McCroy's hand shakes just above his weapon.

It has to happen.

I straighten and take one step back. This move has worked well in the past. Hopefully, its track record holds.

The creature turns its slimy gaze to McCroy who frowns. After half-a second's hesitation, he follows my lead. We retreat all the way to the bulkhead, creating massive distance between us and it. With one last poke at the remains of Martin Clemmens, the Xani returns to its spot in the shadows of the pipes on the ceiling, and skitters away.

McCroy and I stare at the corpse of the boy as if it's some kind of campfire on a cool night.

"Commander Lorn. . . How copy?"

"This is Commander Lorn. . . Go with your traffic, Coodi." I can't look away.

"Commander — We have Winters."

The coms call for a Medic and ambulance team.

My mind flitters to static.

"Commander. We have Winters. How should I proceed?"

There's no protocol in place for if citizens get killed by Xani. None. I scrape around my mind to remember anything that could have prepared me for this. There's nothing.

I need help. Raising my PAHLM, I tune my radio to the private channel I never used before. "General Hayomo—" I whisper into my coms. "This is Commander Lorn. . . Come in."

I wait for a return reply.

"General Hayomo," I try again. "This is Commander Lorn. How copy?"

Radio silence.

I shiver under my layers of battle dress. This creates a sick sense of guilt like taking stock of battle aftermath. Like when you're still standing but your brother-in-arms is a puddle of soup beside you. The last time I went Topside and faced our fresh ruins under Invaders beams didn't hurt as horrible as this. This. Whatever this is. This deep shit I've stepped right in. This pile of trouble I can smell on the soles of my boots as I walk. This. This. This tragedy. It twists my gut and I wonder if it's really the intensity of the moment or just the inappropriately playful jabbing of my son to my insides.

There needs to be someone to go to. Someone to blame for this.

The ambulance team rushes in. They balk and contemplate the best method to pull Martin out of the tangled pile of his own bowels as his blood drips through the perforated floor to the deck below.