Their response was much simpler, more direct, and much, much cheaper. They called it The Bullet.
The critical thing about interstellar travel is this: kinetic energy is equal to the mass of an object times its velocity squared. That makes the process very expensive. It also makes it very dangerous. Eden’s Justice was betrayed by her deceleration torch. The Bullet avoided that problem by never attempting to decelerate. When an object is moving at 0.97 c, as The Bullet was when it slammed into Gault three months after the destruction of Eden’s Justice, it doesn’t have to be all that massive in order to crack a planet open like an eggshell. Even better, there’s no practical way to defend against a relativistic attack, or even really to know that it’s coming, because the light waves announcing its arrival reach its target a bare fraction of a second before it does. The Bullet delivered the energy equivalent of two hundred thousand fusion bombs to Gault’s ecosystem over a period of roughly a picosecond.
You just don’t come back from something like that.
As the fact that we’re trying to make it work on Niflheim shows—there just aren’t a lot of habitable planets hanging around waiting for us out here. Turning one of them into a ball of molten slag is widely considered to be the single greatest crime in the history of the Union.
Nobody blames Farhome for it, though. They blame Manikova—and ever since, in most parts of the Union you’re better off in most people’s minds being a child stealer or a human head collector than you are being a multiple.
018
TWENTY-TWO HUNDRED COMES. I don’t ping Cat. Does she know for sure what’s going on with me and Eight? Maybe not, but after her run-in with him this afternoon she definitely knows something’s up, and somehow I don’t think she’s the sort of person to just let abominations slide. I’m starting to feel like my best chance at not getting converted into protein paste at this point is to avoid her for as long as possible, and hope that she gets eaten by creepers in the meantime.
That plan doesn’t last long. Cat pings me at 22:02:
<CChen0197>:So. You free?
“So much for staying out of her way,” Eight says. “You gonna answer?”
I turn to look at him. He’s stretched out on the bed with his hands folded behind his head. I’m in the swivel chair, feet propped up on the desk. I’d been reading about yet another colonial disaster—this one a beachhead that died of insurrection and civil war before it even had a chance to earn a real name—but the narrative wasn’t really grabbing me. Mostly, I’ve been perseverating on the idea of getting shoved down the corpse hole.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I have to, don’t I?”
<Mickey8>:Hey Cat. I was just catching up on some stuff, but yeah, I’m free.
The more often I see myself tagged as Mickey8, the weirder it feels. I imagine the foreboding that eight at the end of my name calls down on me right now is kind of like what a regular person might feel if she walked past a grave marker with her name on it.
<CChen0197>:Great. We should talk.
<Mickey8>:Meet at your rack?
<CChen0197>:…
<CChen0197>:I don’t think so, Mickey. Let’s go with the gym again, huh? Meet me there in ten.
<Mickey8>:Uh … sure. See you then.
“The gym?” Eight says. “What’s up with that?”
I shrug.
“Seriously,” he says. “Who works out during a famine?”
“It’s a thing,” I say. “I ran into her there last night, when I was afraid to come back here because I thought you might have Nasha with you.”
“I did, just FYI.”
I shoot him a glare. He crosses his legs at the ankle and grins.
“Anyway,” he says, “be careful. There’s something off about her.”
“Whatever,” I say. “If she murders me, you get to go to full rations, right?”
His grin widens. “Good point. Hey—what are you gonna do about that hand?”
I look down. The swelling is mostly gone, but I’ve still got it wrapped.
“Dunno,” I say. “I could take off the bandage, I guess?”
“I wouldn’t. It’s still purple. Just … I don’t know … keep your hand in your pocket?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Honestly, it hurts just thinking about doing that. Maybe you should go instead of me?”
“No,” he says. “No chance. You two have a history. What if she wants to talk about whatever went down between the two of you last night?”
Unfortunately, that’s a fair point.
“Anyway,” he says, “I actually worked today, and I’m tired. Have a fun time.”
He closes his eyes. I open my mouth to reply, but I’ve got nothing. I get to my feet, and I go.
* * *
I’M HALFWAY TO the gym when my ocular pings.
<Mickey8>:Ar chi**?
What the hell?
<Mickey8>:Eight?
<Mickey8>:What?
<Mickey8>:Co m … ren?
<Mickey8>:What the hell, Seven?
<Mickey8>:Go back to sleep, Eight. I don’t have time for this.
<Mickey8>:Mol**an inv?
Whatever. I cut the connection.
* * *
“HEY,” CAT SAYS. “Why didn’t you ping me?”
She’s sitting on one of the treadmills. She doesn’t look like she’s dressed to run this time.
“I was going to,” I say. “You didn’t give me a lot of slack.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine. Have a seat.”
She pats the other treadmill. I hesitate, then decide that if she plans to kill me, she doesn’t need to trick me into sitting on a treadmill to do it. I sit.
“So,” I say. “Um … are we working out?”
She stares at me for what feels like a long while.
“No,” she says finally. “We are not working out. We’re in the gym because I wanted to speak with you privately, and this is the last place that anyone in this colony other than me would come voluntarily.”
“We could have met in your room.”
She looks away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not until we get some things sorted out, anyway. Clear?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Clear. So. What are we talking about?”
She gives me another long look. “How’s your hand, Mickey?”
I sigh. “Getting better. Thanks for asking.”
She nods. “It was all the way better this afternoon.”
No point in dragging this out. “Look,” I say. “Tell me what we’re here for.”
“Okay,” she says. “Cards on the table. There’s two of you, Mickey. You’re the one I had breakfast with this morning. You’re the one who was in my bed last night. You’ve got a busted hand, and you were off shift today. The other one, who I ran into in the corridor a few hours ago, has an unbusted hand, and spent the day growing tomatoes. I don’t know how or why, but you’re a multiple.”
And I knew she knew this, but still my stomach knots, and I can suddenly feel my heart pounding in my throat. “Have you talked to Command?”
She manages to look offended. “Seriously? You sort of saved my life two days ago, and yesterday I saved yours. You slept in my bed. After all that, do you really think I’d just turn you in without talking first?”