“Thank you,” he replied. In truth, not that he’d ever admit it, he didn’t want anyone else to be the one waiting for Tania when she emerged from the vessel.

“What are you going to do, Tim?”

There’s nothing I can do, he thought. “Keep trying to raise them,” was what he said. “And hope there’s another way in.”

The others were silent now.

“Going to swing the dish back,” Tim said. “I’d hate to miss their call.”

“Tim,” Zane said.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve done everything you can.”

Tim clenched his fists again, to stop their shaking. Have I? “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said, and cut the link.

He watched, helpless, impotent, and aggravated as the gigantic mass continued to rise toward the Key Ship. All of his hopes hinged on what would happen when it arrived. Either the hexagon door would be covered, forever lost to him like the woman he loved within, or perhaps, just maybe, a new entrance would present itself, and Tania would find it. They would find it and come back to him and Tania would get that look of delight in her eyes at the sight of him still waiting.

“That’s me,” he said, floating in the void while others took action. “Always waiting.”

A blip snapped his attention to one of the displays at the center of the console. The radar, which mapped his surroundings in simplistic form. The alien vessel, being an unknown entity to the computer, was drawn in depth-coded wire-frame, as was the object being lifted from Africa, though at this distance the display had not resolved any fine detail on it.

Something new had appeared at the edge of sensor range. Something marked with a designation that meant the system recognized its transponder. Tim stared at it, in the same moment realizing it had come from the direction of Darwin.

His heart began to pound. “No, dammit. Not now. Not now!” He tapped the microphone again, intent to alert Tania, not that she could hear him, but he held his tongue. Would these newcomers be able to hear him, too? He had no idea if the frequencies used were common across all Platz equipment, or had been changed.

He clicked off again, watching the dot on his radar drift ever closer. It seemed to be decelerating. He glanced up, looking out his tiny window, but he was too close to the gigantic alien vessel to see much of anything, and besides this ship was on the opposite side.

“Perhaps they’re friendly,” he said aloud. “Maybe it’s Skyler.” The thought filled him at once with hope and more than a little dread. Of course, Skyler would be the one to swoop in and save Tania again. “Stop thinking like that, Timmy. Just be yourself. Relax. Think.”

He decided to work under the assumption that they were not friendly. If they were, he suspected he would have heard from them by now. On a whim he searched for and found the switch that controlled his external lights, and flipped them off. Let them assume everyone’s gone inside.

Tim tapped the newcomer’s icon on the radar display and was happy to find additional details appeared on the right side of the screen. Velocity. Yes, they were indeed slowing, and rapidly at that.

Dimensions. That was odd. This was no ERV. Not even close. The width spanned more than two hundred meters.

Below these stats a designation number filled in, and then below that, a name.

MIDWAY STATION.

Chapter Thirty

Midway Station

2.APR.2285

Samantha lay curled in a fetal ball, her wrists and ankles bound. She ached all over and felt grateful for it. The toxin had worn off. No longer would she have to suffer the indignity of complete immobility. The guards, Weck especially, had been cruel while moving her helpless form to the cell she now lay in. They’d let her slam into walls, they’d dragged her along the floor by her feet, her face scraping along the rough irregular surfaces of the utilitarian station.

The room they’d placed her in had been someone’s sleeping quarters, but because of the way the station was moving—decelerating now, she thought—one of the walls had become her floor. It had taken her mind a while to not let this little illusion mess with her. Only when she’d imagined herself on an ocean liner that had sunk, impaling itself upright on the ocean floor, did the bizarre angle make sense enough to keep her stomach from fluttering.

No one spoke to her, and she made no effort to draw them into conversation. She knew where they were taking her, and because of Grillo’s comment, she knew why: An immune had to place the object inside the Builder’s ship. The temple, Grillo had called it. At the very least he knew an immune had to be present for entrance to be possible.

The fact that they had Skadz, too, complicated her situation and restricted her options immensely. Grillo was a clever bastard in saying that if one of them resisted his men should kill the other one. Sam would gladly die rather than help these people, but she doubted Skadz shared the same conviction. So her resistance would only result in both of their deaths. Better to wait, she thought. Be passive, go with the flow, and take her opportunity when it came.

And then there was Vaughn. She wondered if they’d dispatched him with the same lack of emotion that had ended Kelly’s life. Grillo, of course, knew of her relationship with the man, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use that against her. Not that this had done Kelly a lot of good. Sam wrestled for a long time with that, trying to remove her tumultuous emotions from the equation. Kelly had at least done some real damage, actively worked against all the various regimes that sided opposite Platz. She’d made herself dangerous and cunning enough to warrant a swift execution.

Vaughn had merely been used by Sam, and perhaps helped in a marginal way in this latest gambit. It was surely evident Sam had a soft spot for the man. And Grillo, she knew, would not hesitate to exploit any angle he could, which left her in a catch-22. If she acted as if Vaughn were nothing more to her than a simple hostage, Grillo would likely kill him immediately. His loyalty was surely in doubt, so there would be no point in risking his presence. But if Sam showed concern for the man, Grillo would know he had something and use it against her. And this, she felt, had the potential to be far worse for Vaughn than a quick death.

Yet any moment he remained alive was a moment that could lead to freedom, or a turning of tables.

She’d lost Kelly. She decided she would not lose Vaughn while she still lived and breathed.

After what seemed like hours the press of deceleration that held her to the wall began to dwindle. A minute later she floated within the room, anchored by her wrist binding, which had been tied to a cabinet’s handle.

One of the three men watching her left, moving awkwardly in the lack of gravity. A few minutes later he returned. “Bring the prisoner,” he said, a note of anticipation in his voice.

Of course they would be excited. Grillo probably hyped the living shit out of this place, this temple, to them. The morons probably thought they were about to meet God himself.

She let them guide her through the curved hall of the station. Midway had only one ring, as far as she could tell anyway, and then the spoke hallways that led inward to the central docking and cargo area.

To her surprise, when they entered the cargo area she was tied down again, this time to a rung mounted on the floor of the space. There were rungs mounted everywhere on these stations, in neat little rows that ran along recessed channels. They reminded her of train tracks. The rungs she knew allowed people to tug themselves around in the lack of gravity, but mounting them in recessed channels confused her until she imagined this place full of crates and workers. It wouldn’t do to have equipment and packages constantly snagging on the rungs.

Skadz was brought in as well, of course tied off on the far opposite side of the bay. He met her gaze and offered a single, confident nod, which Sam returned.

When Grillo appeared from one of the access halls, she kept her eyes firmly on him, hoping to catch some hint of his intentions. Her opportunity would come, of this she felt sure, but only if she saw it in time.

Grillo called some of his men over and huddled with them. His most trusted or most capable, she assumed, and she tried to remember their faces. Mentally she gave them names: Mustache, Longhands, Hightower, and Commander Cocksucker. The last nickname brought a laugh to her lips when it came to her. Of the four only he had a military air about him, and yet his soft face held a vague resemblance to one of the pretty boys she’d seen at Madame Dee’s.

Of the four, she’d only seen Hightower before. Weck, his actual name was Weck, but Sam would not use it. She’d seen how he reacted to being gibed once before and figured if she egged him on again, perhaps he’d make a mistake.

The conference broke up after Grillo spoke pointedly to each man in turn. They immediately fanned out to tackle whatever tasks he’d given them. She muttered a silent thanks when Hightower headed in her direction, the hint of satisfaction on his face.

Unfortunately, Grillo came with him, flanked by two men who looked vaguely familiar. Both carried themselves with the quiet confidence that could only come from a military life. She racked her mind for their names, and when she found them the situation only made slightly more sense. Alex Warthen, and his second in command. Larsen, she thought, unable to recall his first name. They’d questioned her briefly during her imprisonment on Gateway Station, and then lost her when Kelly broke her out. She and the Ghost had killed some of their men, sabotaged systems across their station, and even played a few practical jokes just to keep them on edge.

She saw recognition in both their faces. Recognition and hatred, only partly masked by soldier’s composure.

“I’m tempted,” Grillo said as he strode up, “to mark you, Samantha.”

From the inner pocket of his blazer came a carbon-black rectangular object he clutched between two fingers. He twirled the thing with practiced familiarity until he had the right hold in his palm. Then he squeezed.

Sam recoiled reflexively as the blade sprang forth.

Grillo leaned in even closer until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled of mint and anesthetic, his gaze flitting between her cheek and her eyes. He wanted a reaction, and she refused to give it.

His normally smooth voice became a rasp that leaked out between clenched teeth. “I believe a pound of flesh is the going rate for a betrayal such as yours. Your second, if I’m not mistaken? And I let you off so easily last time, didn’t I?”

The tip of the knife pressed against the skin over her cheekbone. Sam felt a little sting, then something warm rolling downward, tracing along her chin, then her neck.

“I won’t make that mistake again.” He whispered now, his lips brushing against her cheek beside the pinprick wound. “Still,” he said, rocking back onto his heels, “a whole pound of flesh … I wouldn’t even know what to do with that much. So! A marking, I think. A cross on your forehead? I don’t have time to carve a ladder so a simple cross will have to do. A scar for you to wear until you draw your last breath. Which, by the way, dear girl, might be only an hour or so from now.”

“Just get it over with, you fucking psychopath.”

He smirked. “Sam, Sam. Don’t confuse conviction with crazy. I thought you more wise than that.”

“Conviction?” she asked. A rage, simmering from the moment he’d walked in, finally boiled and spilled out in her voice. She let it. Fuck it. “I’ll tell you who’s crazy. All these Jacobites who think you actually believe any of their bloody nonsense.”

“Sam …”

“You’re a slumlord,” she spat, “nothing more. A common criminal, a murderer, a—”

He slapped her with the back of his hand, a move so quick and powerful she felt it before she even realized he’d swung. The knife clutched within his fingers added a weight to the blow that drew even more blood from her cheek, along with a blinding ache. She worked her jaw, tasted a warm copper flavor.

“Do not,” he raged, “question me or pretend to know what I believe! Do not!”

The room had fallen silent, she realized. Everyone stopped mid-task, staring. This marked the first time she’d ever seen Grillo lose his composure, and she suspected the same was true of everyone else in the cargo bay.

“Hit a sore point, did I?” she asked, feeling a drop of blood enter the corner of her mouth. “Sorry.”

He raised his hand again and somehow turned the motion into a controlled gesture. The naked wrath in his eyes melted away in the same instant. His hand, instead of lashing out as she’d expected, kept rising until he touched it to his own forehead. He brushed back a single strand of hair that had fallen out of place. Then he raised his chin slightly, and exhaled. “You’ll get two chances at redemption, child. First failure, Vaughn will lose his, er, manhood. Second, he will die and, as you can surely imagine, it won’t be pleasant. After that you will go from helper to hostage, and your friend Skadz will be given the chance to perform the tasks I require and save your life in the process.”

“You’ll just kill us all after that.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “You’ll be free to go. You see, Samantha, other than the specific task I need, you’re no longer special. Your immunity to the disease means nothing now because the disease has vanished.”

He paused and let the words settle. “In a few hours you’ll just be Samantha Rinn again. The tall, mannish brute who will probably have to beg for the clumsy pawing of men like Weck here.”

Bound and helpless as she was, Samantha leveled a steady gaze on Grillo and spoke with as much defiance as she could. “And what will you be? Ruler of an empty city? Because you know, nobody’s going to stick around in Darwin if they’re not held in by the aura.”