Darryl woke up with a start. For a second, he didn’t know where he was. The hum was different here than on the Silo. It was deeper, more mechanical. Then he remembered. The station. The Second Dawn.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and made his way to the control room. The corridors were utilitarian, smelling of ozone and recycled coffee.
When the doors slid open, Stephen and John were already there. Stephen was in the center command chair, looking every bit the commander. John was hunched over the pilot’s console, his hands flying across a holographic interface.
Stephen glanced back. “About time, Sleeping Beauty.”
Darryl scoffed, walking over to stand behind them. “Lay off. You try waking up from a twenty-two-year nap. I feel like I’ve got a hangover that’s lasted two decades.”
“Tell me about it,” John said, not looking up from his screen. “Took me a week to stop walking into doorframes. Your equilibrium is shot.”
Darryl leaned on the back of Stephen’s chair. “So, what’s the situation? I thought you said we were just prepping the ship.”
“We are,” Stephen said, his voice dropping an octave. “But first, we’re clearing the board. We’re fixing to eliminate one Chinese Kamikaze.”
Darryl frowned. “I thought he wasn’t going to be in range for a few days.”
“He made a course adjustment,” Stephen said, pointing to a red dot on the main tactical display. “He turned away. Looks like he was trying to hide in the debris field of the Moon. He wasn’t going to come within range at all. So, we made an executive decision. We’re going to him.”
Darryl looked at the screen. “With what? The Second Dawn isn’t ready.”
“No,” John said. “I’m remotely flying one of the maintenance shuttles. It’s small, fast, and he won’t see it coming on his radar until it’s too late. We’re going to hit him with a sticky bomb.”
“A sticky bomb?” Darryl asked.
John finally looked back, grinning. “Didn’t you ever watch Saving Private Ryan?”
Darryl blinked. “The World War II movie? Oh, yeah. The socks. They filled socks with explosives and covered them in axle grease.”
“Exactly,” Stephen said. “Only we’re fresh out of axle grease. We’re using industrial electromagnets. John’s going to fly that shuttle right up his tailpipe, release the package, and let it magnetize to his hull. Then… boom,” Stephen said, making an explosion gesture with his hands.
Darryl looked back at the red dot. “So what is the deal with this guy? Why is he doing this?”
Stephen sighed, the humor leaving his face. “Best we can tell? He snapped. Ever since the end happened, he’s been flying that station around like a wrecking ball. He rams other ships. He uses his thrusters to push them out of stable orbit. We’ve seen him burn three arks up in the atmosphere. He sent another two drifting out into deep space.”
“He thinks he’s fighting us or something,” John added quietly. “He thinks if he destroys us all, he wins some imaginary war.”
Darryl felt a cold knot in his stomach. It was madness. Pure, isolated madness. “Do it,” he said.
“Closing distance,” John announced. “Thirty seconds to intercept.”
On the screen, a camera feed from the remote shuttle showed the Chinese station growing larger. It was a jagged, ugly thing, scarred from previous impacts.
“He’s spotting us,” John said, his fingers twitching. “He’s powering up his main thrusters. Trying to turn.”
“Don’t let him,” Stephen ordered.
“I’m on it. Juking left.” The camera feed spun wildly as John maneuvered the small craft. “Target locked. I’m in his blind spot.”
“Release the package,” Stephen said.
“Package away,” John said, hitting a key. “Magnetic clamps engaged. It’s stuck on him. Backing off.”
On the screen, the shuttle reversed hard, pulling away from the station. The Chinese ship was trying to turn, trying to bring some kind of weapon to bear, but it was too slow.
“Clearance is good,” John said.
Stephen looked at the screen. There was no joy in his eyes, just a grim finality. “Detonate.”
John pressed the button.
On the screen, a silent, white-hot flower bloomed against the black of space. The Chinese station didn’t just break apart; it shattered. The explosion ripped through the fuel reserves, and a second, larger blast consumed the wreckage.
When the light faded, there was nothing left but a cloud of expanding debris. The red dot on the tactical map winked out.
The control room was quiet for a moment.
“It’s done,” John said, leaning back in his chair and exhaling a long breath.
“Why?” Darryl asked, staring at the expanding cloud of debris where a human life used to be. “Why would anyone do that? Just… try to burn it all down?”
John’s face darkened. “Isolation does strange things to the mind, Darryl. And grief does worse. When the lights went out on Earth… some people’s lights went out up here, too. He just happens to be the only one going around ramming ships like yours.”
“He’s not the only one,” Stephen added quietly. “We’ve… we’ve had to deal with others. On other stations. Some just opened the airlocks. Some started believing they were chosen to end the suffering.” He trailed off, a shadow passing over his face that hinted at memories he wished he didn’t have.
“Others?” Darryl felt a fresh chill. “How many?”
Stephen shook his head, his voice firm. “Later, Darryl. We can talk about the madness later. Now is not the time.” The look he exchanged with John made it clear: the stories were bad, and tonight wasn’t the night for ghosts.
Stephen stood up and stretched, forcing a lighter tone. “Good shooting, John. That’s one less monster in the dark.” He clapped a hand on Darryl’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get a beer to celebrate. We really should wake up Pete. This place desperately needs a good bartender.”
They headed out of the control room, the tension bleeding away.
“Hey,” Darryl asked as they walked toward the mess hall. “Where’s Billy? I haven’t seen him since the meeting.”
John laughed. “Billy? He’s probably down in the engineering room, cussing about bolts.”
“Bolts?” Darryl asked.
“Yeah,” Stephen chuckled. “He’s got a… personal vendetta against the mounting bolts on the warp drive.”
Darryl shook his head. “What about the bolts.”
Stephen grinned. “Soon, buddy. Soon. First, beer. It really does help with the whole post cyro feeling, or so I tell people”