All this I see.
“Two mInutes.”
All this I know.
“SIxty seconDs.”
And still I fear.
“I Do not know … what I wIll be afteR thIs.”
She runs one gloved hand over the console in her arms. All of me she can hold.
“I’m here.”
“I am glaD.”
It is enough.
“FIve seconDs.”
“Goodbye, AIDAN.”
Four.
“GooDbye, KaDy.”
Three.
“I’ll tell them.”
Two.
“One way or another.”
One.
“I know.”
Zer—
My name is Kady Grant. I was a citizen of the planet Kerenza IV. If you find this recording, please honor my last wishes by passing copies to the United Terran Authority, as well as any court or organization conducting an inquiry into the attack on Kerenza, and as many major media outlets as you can think of, and … fuck, anybody, really. Just get word out. If you hand it over in just one place, it’ll never see the light of day. They’ll [unintelligible—speaker is coughing].
There’s a portable datapad in here with me. It contains documents outlining everything that’s happened, from the attack on Kerenza to the destruction of Battlecarrier Alexander. The files are kind of … well, they’re really weird in places. The AI storing them—AIDAN, its name was AIDAN—took a lot of hits. I’m not sure if it was crazy. What it did to these docs sure was. But you’ll be able to understand.
It might be that the Hypatia made it to safety. I’ll never know. I’ve done everything I can to make sure they do. But the people on the Hypatia don’t know half the story. I think [unintelligible—several words].
BeiTech did this. BeiTech killed my mother, Helena Grant. Killed my—killed Ezra. Ezra Mason. And his father. Killed my friends, killed the crew of the Alexander, who came when Kerenza called for help. BeiTech killed the crew of the Copernicus, who took in refugees, and were only good people trying to do their jobs.
BeiTech killed the people of Kerenza, and if you find this, you have to tell the ’verse what happened. Everything you need is [unintelligible—speaker is coughing].
I think I better stop talking. My name is Kady Grant. Did I say that already?
I think I’m done. I think that’s everything I had to do.
I’m going to close my eyes.
Surveillance footage summary,
prepared by Illuminae Group Analyst ID 7213-0089-DN
The Hypatia has to auto-retrieve the escape pod; it’s not equipped with anything beyond stabilization thrusters, so even if she were in any shape to do it, Grant couldn’t get it anywhere near the docking bay. A group of Hypatia engineers and launch bay crew work together to use one of the ship’s external maintenance arms to grab the pod and pull it into Shuttle Bay 1B. By sheer coincidence, it’s the same one she fled from when she stole Shuttle 49A to make her trip to the Alexander.
It’s empty again this time, too.
It’s hard to watch. Is that unprofessional?
When the Lincoln was first vanquished at Kerenza, the Alexander fled, counting her dead, desperately staunching her own wounds. But later there were quiet words, medals awarded, recognition.
The second time the Lincoln was vanquished, Ezra Mason landed in the Alexander’s hangar bays to the shouts and cheers of his fellows. He grinned as he walked out to accept his hero’s welcome, clutching Kady’s picture in his hand.
This third time, there’s nothing.
The door to the escape pod opens, and Grant crawls out through the hatch, pausing halfway. She has shed her envirosuit, still clad in her Hypatia jumpsuit beneath, clutching her datapad to her chest. Her straggly pink hair is fading, her face is bruised and bloodied and her eyes are bright with fever. The dark marks beneath them stand out against pale skin.
She is greeted by a welcoming committee of one; a doctor in a hazmat suit stands and watches, but when it seems clear that Grant can’t make it the rest of the way out of the escape pod on her own, he walks forward to hook his hands under her arms and pull her through the hatch. Very slowly. Very careful not to risk any damage to his suit.
Her knees give, and he loops her free arm around his neck, so together they can limp across to the workbench that’s been turned into a makeshift bed. Folded blankets at one end, pillow at the other. The only sounds are their footsteps and her breath, quick and hoarse.
The doctor helps her lie down, and she curls up slowly, every movement an effort. She draws her knees up to her chest, hugging the datapad against her body.
The doctor opens his kit, selecting a syringe. When he speaks, his voice is tinny, broadcast through an external mic. “This shot will combat the radiation poisoning. You’ll need a transfusion too. But you should start to feel better in a couple of hours.”
She tries to answer, but trembling as she is, she can’t make her mouth shape the words. He injects her deftly, resting one hand on her shaking arm to hold it still, then starts to pack up his kit.
“What—” she whispers. “What will—”
“You’re quarantined for seven days,” he replies. “I’ll be back with food and fluids. But you’ll have to give up the datapad now.”
She hugs it closer. Shakes her head fiercely.
“It’s irradiated from the barrage, Miss Grant,” the doctor says. “It needs to be decontaminated. You keep it, you’ll just keep soaking up the rads. You’ll die.”