Abel answers her by activating a small screen on the wall, which shows a smaller version of what they’d have seen on the bridge—the planet Stronghold.
Its gray, crater-scarred surface makes it look more like a lifeless moon than a habitable world. The thin atmosphere is breathable, but only just, and the black seas that blot the surface are what Stronghold has instead of oceans. Thick, silvery icecaps coat the poles down nearly to what would, on a warmer world, be called the tropics. Factories and mines cover the equator with metal as if they were plates of armor. Even from orbit, she can see how much industrial smoke is being belched out.
“They’re using this world up, too,” she murmurs, pushing herself up on her elbows. “Poisoning it.”
“Not in this case.” Abel zooms in on the view, showing her more of the factories. “The planet has to be warmer before it can sustain more than three hundred million humans—very nearly the current population. So they’re intentionally releasing greenhouse gases as part of an effort to terraform Stronghold into a more habitable world.”
Noemi had never considered that before, that one world’s poison might be another’s salvation.
Stronghold looks as terrifying as any world possibly could, and yet it’s also her best chance of getting well. Going on with her mission. Saving Genesis.
Seven days. The fever can’t rob her of this knowledge, this deadline that eats at her every second. Seven days.
The ring around the planet confuses her at first—in school, nobody ever taught them that Stronghold had a ring. Her eyes widen as she recognizes what she’s actually seeing: a gigantic swarm of ships, mostly large industrial freighters, gathered like chickens at feed—each one of which must carry dozens if not hundreds of humans. This fleet dwarfs the cluster of ships they saw at Kismet; even more ominous, these ships show none of the Vagabonds’ imagination and spirit. No brilliant paint designs brighten the hulls of these square metal ships. They float in formations as rigid and regular as honeycombs, waiting and watching for the decision that will make the difference between life and death for everyone on board.
Then the screen shimmers into the planetary greeting. Triumphal music begins to play as a prerecorded image superimposes itself over the star field: Two black flags, each with a thin silver stripe down the middle, flutter on either side of an enormous granite building with massive columns in front.
“This is Stronghold,” says an announcer with a deep, purposeful voice. “Here, we mine the metals and minerals Earth and the other colony worlds need to survive. We train to serve in Earth’s armies with dignity and courage. And we work to reshape our planet into humanity’s next home. Someday our planet will stand at the center of the galaxy. Are you strong enough to stand with us?”
“That’s a pretty intense sales pitch if people have nowhere else to go,” Noemi says as the music swells over images of brawny miners who look far too clean, then military recruits running up a black-earthed mountain.
“I don’t think it’s a sales pitch,” Abel says. “I think it’s a warning that some people will be turned away.”
Nowhere in the prerecorded greeting does Noemi glimpse any elderly people or children. No one using walking or visual assistance. Maybe that’s just the glossy sheen of propaganda, but maybe not.
A world with no place for mercy and kindness, a world where there’s only one rigid, narrow way to be—is that really the only choice people from Earth have left?
The anti-fever drug Abel gave her buys Noemi almost half an hour of lucidity. She uses it to take a sonic shower and change into a simple olive-green jumpsuit. The pajamas are all sweaty; the thought of putting them against her body again grosses her out.
The ship shudders around them as the tractor beam tows them into the planetary atmosphere, toward Stronghold’s stark, rocky surface. As they’re pulled in an arc toward the landing base, Noemi sees more and more ships clustered nearby, coming in for landing as well.
“These people are going to check our info pretty closely,” Noemi warns as she sinks into one of the sick bay chairs. She’ll be back in a hospital bed soon enough. “This doesn’t look like a place where they let things slide.”
“Our ship ID has held up so far.” Abel tries not to look too proud of his forgery skills, and fails.
“Who are we this time?”
“The Apollo. For the Greek god of healing, among other things.”
He named the ship after a deity with the power to make her well. Noemi suddenly feels as though she might cry—
—but that’s the fever coming back. She gets emotional when she’s sick. Uncomfortable with her own reaction, she says, “We should’ve told them that I have Cobweb. Before we landed. They’ll be angry when they realize we lied. I can’t walk out there and expose everyone else—”
“It’s all right.” Abel speaks as gently as he might to a frightened child. Why does her voice have to shake? Noemi hates appearing weak nearly as much as she hates feeling weak. “I reported your condition. We’ll be met at the landing pad by a medical team.”
“They know? Then why are they letting us land?” Stronghold doesn’t come across as an oasis of mercy.
“Stronghold wants young people.” Abel pauses. “I listed myself as nineteen, since that is closest to the age I currently appear to be. They give preferential treatment to those who come here under their own power, with their own independent resources. And, ah, they very much want couples who seem likely to bear children.”
“Wait. What?”
No denying it: Abel looks sheepish. “When I determined the criteria most likely to win us landing clearance, I listed us as a young husband and wife. Did I do the wrong thing?”
“But if the doctors figure out I can’t—”
“What you described is unlikely to show up on regular scans. And you’ll be in the hospital. They’ll be helping you. Nothing else matters.”
Noemi imagines these enemy doctors prodding at her—judging her, weighing the value of her life—but knows there’s nowhere else to turn.
The Daedalus settles onto the ground with a soft thump. She stands up—or tries to, because the floor seems to tilt beneath her. When she wavers, Abel steps closer, catching her in his arms. Noemi remembers his offer after Casablanca—the hopeful, gentle look in his eyes as he asked her to come to bed—and feels awkward about being this close to him.…
No. That’s not right. She feels like it should be awkward, but it isn’t. Leaning on Abel feels completely natural.
“Lie down,” he says, easing her back onto the biobed. “The medical team will board our ship. It’s safest that way.”
“I need to see it. Stronghold. I have to see what’s happening.” She’s not sure why. She only knows that she’s confused and afraid, and she can’t stand not knowing exactly where they are.