I head to the other side of the room, where the largest weapons are stored. I recognize torpedoes and missiles and bazookas from the vids of Sol-Earth discord Eldest showed me. A shelf lines the back of the room, cluttered with small round things, small cakes of compressed powder carefully packaged in clear plastic.

Amy picks one of the powder cakes up. “These look like toilet bowl cleaners we’d use on Earth, the kind you’d drop in the back of a tank.” She turns it over in her hands, the heavy plastic package crinkling. Then she notices my confused expression. “Oh, yeah, the toilets here don’t have tanks.”

On the bottom of the heavy, clear, thick-plastic packaging is a warning label etched into the container:

Anti-agricultural Biological Chemical

For use with Prototype Missile #476

Range: 100+ acres

To employ: See Prototype Missile #476

FRX

FRX . . . Financial Resource Exchange. The group that funded Godspeed’s mission in the first place.

On the next shelf is a similar cake-tablet, but this one is black, and the label on the bottom calls it an Anti-Personnel Biological Chemical.

I put the things back on the shelf cautiously, careful not to set anything off. It takes all the strength I have not to throw them away, hurtle them as far as I can, shove them all out the hatch.

“Don’t tell me you still think this is all for self-defense,” I say. I don’t want to pick a fight with Amy, but surely she can see these weapons are extreme. “This is chemical warfare. It’s preparation for genocide.”

“My mother’s a geneticist and every bit as important as my father in the military,” Amy counters immediately, but her voice is guarded, and I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t want me to question her beliefs further or if it’s because she can’t bear to let herself doubt them. “If the FRX was intent on wiping out all life on Centauri-Earth, then why would they enlist a biologist to help? Why have a scientist who studies life if all they want to do is kill everything? There are twenty-seven people in the military—but seventy-three who aren’t.”

I nod at her. She’s right. Of course she’s right. But that doesn’t mean Orion’s wrong.

Amy turns her back to me, surveying the armory. She gasps.

“What is it?” I ask.

Instead of answering me, Amy bends down and slides a mustard-colored blister pack off the shelf. “This thing looks like half a softball,” she says, handing it to me. I turn the blister pack over and read the warning label on the bottom.

Warning: explosive; mild irritant

Explosive Compound Formula M

Range: 10 feet

To detonate: depress top center;

detonation time: three minutes

FRX

I put it back on the shelf as gently and quickly as I can, turning to see what Amy found under the blister pack.