As trained defence technicians, both Saul and Maren would be drafted into whatever fight humanity was capable of mustering—whether it was a highly organised military assault or a desperate last stand against impossible odds. Gin was in the lucky position of not having military training while still being valuable; her experience with communications would probably secure her a position as a priority civilian, and she would be relocated to a safe area where she would work on efficiently redirecting messages between secure planets.

Maren felt herself relax as the three friends sat in silence, watching the gamma flare paint the sky white and blue. Gin would be safe doing what she loved, and Maren would finally get a chance to exercise her talents as a defence technician. The Cymic Parasites weren’t to be taken lightly, but in that moment, she felt as though she could handle anything, as long as she and Saul were together.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Saul enveloped her hand with his, and they twined their fingers together. She looked at him and smiled, and he smiled back, warm and reliable, and he squeezed her hand as they both turned back to watch the lights dance through the sky.

Part Five

STATION 335

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Mitzi lay on her side, swiping her long fingers over the remote that controlled her television. Faces and scenes flashed across the wall, their voices blending into a pleasant drone as the screen’s light washed over her.

“There were more delays on the Cendle Expressway today…”

“…speculating about Pattel’s relationship with the deceased…”

“…said that the cleanup is already underway…”

“…in other news, Olympic Champion Tarvis Prey…”

More than a hundred news stations, and not a single one reporting on the greatest catastrophe humankind has ever experienced. Mitzi, disgusted, turned off the television with a quick flick and rolled onto her back. The ceiling, an ugly brownish grey, had a clock fixed to it. It read just after ten in the morning, though the windowless room was so dark that she wouldn’t have known morning had arrived. The clock was the only decoration in her tiny cube of a room.

She’d only meant to stay there for a few weeks, after all. But the weeks had turned into months, and four years after she’d signed a temporary contract for the Pennan Heights accommodation, Mitzi still couldn’t bring herself to personalise her room beyond the simple narrow bed and the clothes she hung in the closet. If she bought nicer furniture, wall hangings, and beautiful bed throws, that would mean she’d accepted the eight-feet-by-eight-feet box was her home. And she couldn’t stand the thought.

The cheap, distasteful accommodation had only one thing going for it: close proximity to a number of her old work colleagues. They were ageing, like Mitzi. Most of them had earned promotions into management roles, and one, the oldest, had already retired.

“The day I retire is the day I hug a moving train,” Mitzi had once said. She’d loved her job in defence, and the dishonourable discharge had hurt her more than she dared to admit to herself.