Dreadnought: Chapters 6–13

The elevators here are mundane, and the hallways are normal, but then you turn the corner, and past some sliding doors there’s a fifteen-foot-high holographic projection of the Earth, with glowing dotted lines tracking the orbital trajectories of at least five space stations and color-coded markers for important surface contacts.

All the chairs are softly lit by unobtrusive spotlights, and the table is gleaming glossy wood with holographic haptic sensor interfaces embedded in it at each seat.

All the chairs are softly lit by unobtrusive spotlights, and the table is gleaming glossy wood with holographic haptic sensor interfaces embedded in it at each seat.

Chlorophyll is half man, half plant, and wearing a tight T-shirt over his lithe green chest.

“We’d also like to meet the young lady,” says Magma in a surprisingly rich and urbane voice. In most of the video I’ve seen of him he’s roaring like fire and brimstone and smacking blackcapes into the ground.

She’s looking at me like I’m an interloper.

“You’ll have to agree to abide by certain rules,” says Carapace. “Nothing onerous, but we’re serious about them.”

“The video enlightens us not as to the method of his demise,” says Valkyrja.

She says video like it’s the name of an eldritch anomaly.

Again, I am profoundly thankful to him, for this beautiful, wonderful, amazing gift he gave me.

I’m sitting there, waiting for the police to show with my head in my hands, oblivious to the world.

“And you believed her?” asks Graywytch.
“She...seemed to know what she was talking about,” I mutter lamely.
“Your credulity delayed our investigation,” says Graywytch.

“There are extenuating circumstances that must be considered,” says Carapace.

You heard him yourself; he only wants to keep it to be sure of being able to continue perpetrating this masquerade of his.

I feel like a sodden, icy blanket is trying to press me into the floor.

It’s not like Dad could really stop me anymore, but it just seems better to avoid the fight until I’ve already done it. A fait accompli, it’s called, an accomplished fact. Do it fast without their permission, and then there’s nothing they can do to change it back.

Inside my shoes, I’m clenching and unclenching my toes, but my face is solid, impassive.

What started as something that was almost an affirmation (everyone is noticing I'm a girl!) has now become tedious (and now they won't get over it!).

He looks almost like I’ve startled him out of a reverie.

He’s sullen and won’t talk to me in the halls, and in class he never once looks my way.

Flames shoot out the back, and a solid trail of noxious black smoke streams from the engine.

My hands scrabble at the aluminum, fingers sliding over metal.

The aluminum skin gives way with a shriek and I crunch six inches up into the guts of the plane, my legs dangling free. A huge support strut is pressing into my back.

There’s a sharp grinding somewhere along my flank, and my body is alive with sprains and tears.

My knees lock and almost instantly my feet start digging furrows in the concrete.

With one last great heave of effort, I let the plane down gently on its right side and scramble out from underneath the fuselage on my hands and knees.

“On fuel leaks and ignition sources. We think the starboard tanks should be empty, but who knows?”

Quiet joy suffuses me.

I take a long sip from my cup of diet soda to cover this new disquiet.

My supersuit is banged up from last night, mostly in the boots, which were almost scraped apart against the airport tarmac, and I need to see about getting some repairs.

The art deco arches and gleaming metal lines of Legion Tower seem somehow less stern and imposing during the drab wet twilight.

“It’s not a vote, it’s your choice. You get to make it unilaterally,” says Doc Impossible.

I open my mouth, and what comes out is, “Um. I guess.” Oh, so articulate! A little icy spike of embarrassment cuts through my good mood. Dad likes to say that unless I can speak well, I should shut up.

“Your ribs were broken from the inside. I mean inside the bones themselves. They exploded. You’ve got scars consistent with bone shard perforations in your liver, stomach, spleen, and kidney.”

Those old instincts to hide and clutch things furtively are still with me, it seems.