from the hit of a SEAR cannon, but from the force of firing several at once. It shook the room. Several pitchers of water on the conference table spilled over. The Akeelians all got to their feet, reaching for the table to stabilize themselves.
“Threat annihilated,” the station-wide comms reported.
“Report!” Mahtar yelled. “Full report! Right now! What in the sun-fucked sun gods just happened?”
ALCOR could almost hear the report. But not quite.
Because just as the words began spilling out of the comms a swarm of dragonbee bots began spilling out of the ventilation vents.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - CRUX
The blue gel of the spin node is freezing cold. And for a moment I want to stop and turn back. Not because I’m afraid of what’s ahead, I just want to turn it all back. Just start all over again.
I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to do any of it.
I want to be sixteen again.
I want Jimmy to be my best friend.
I want to drink whiskey with him in the middle of the night and give no fucks about tomorrow.
I want to go to school, and learn things—not because I need a skill to save my life, or the lives of others, but just because it’s interesting.
I just want to go back.
And even though I know I am going back, this trip isn’t going to be enough.
I can already feel it.
The disappointment. It’s there, and it’s building. No matter what happens in this time loop, it’s not going to be enough.
It takes me several moments to realize that I’ve actually arrived somewhere. It’s just dark.
“Hello?” I whisper.
I could be anywhere. I mean, I asked for ALCOR to take me back to Wayward Station to the night I first talked to Corla, but specifically I said—Give me the sweet version.
Only the sun-fucked gods know where that time loop exists.
At any rate, no one answers me. But the longer I stand there, the more my eyes adjust. And soon I can make out shapes.
It is the dining room—well, a dining room. It doesn’t look exactly like the one I remember. But I can see the outline of tables and chairs—and when I turn, the bar is behind me. I let out a long breath and feel my way along the front of it, gripping the edge of the slick, liquored wood until I find the end and then slip behind the counter.
I really need a drink.
A sensor picks up my movement and the low-level after-hours lighting kicks in. It’s mostly just floorboards, but it’s enough to see by. Enough to find a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
It’s only then, as I face the mirror behind the bottles of liquor on the shelves, that I realize I’m not him.
I’m not a kid.
My hands go up to my face and it all feels very familiar.
I’m me. Age thirty-seven. Hardened… what? I’m not a criminal. I’m not a soldier. I’m not a bounty hunter, or a scavenger, or a bot liberator, or an AI mind—I’m just. “Crux, you’re just a sun-damned politician.”
I shake my head and let out a slow sigh. Fucking ALCOR. Of course, I’m me at thirty-seven. Because that’s how my life goes. I’m here to meet a sixteen-year-old girl. So of course, I’m twenty-one years late. Of course, I am.
I pour a drink. Throw it down in one gulp. Then pour another. This one I sip. Then I set it down, place my hands flat on the bar, and stare down into the distorted reflection of my face in the polished wood.
This is pointless. The dining room is closed. It’s the middle of the night. I don’t even know if I could find Corla’s apartments, and even if I could, there is no chance that her guards would allow some random stranger in to see her.
The door across the room opens and then closes with a quiet hush of air.
When I look up, a girl has her back pressed against it, half-hidden in the shadows.
I just stare at her for a moment.
In fact, we just stare at each other for a moment.
Then she clears her throat. “I’m sorry,” she says. But her voice is low and a little bit raspy. Almost weak. Not a voice I recognize and definitely not Corla. “I didn’t think anyone would be here. I just…” She sighs. “I just need a drink.”
“You and me both,” I sigh. Then I squint my eyes. Trying to see her better. She has fair hair and a pale face. She’s not wearing