Chapter 22: Velocity
Twenty-four hours after being rescued from the crevice, Sherlock is sitting in the lab, staring at the monitor in front of him with a frown. Mycroft enters the room from the opposite side and quietly steps up next to his brother.
"I have absolutely nothing to say to you, Admiral." Sherlock's eyes never leave the screen.
"Sherlock, I want to apologize." Mycroft says after clearing his throat.
"I do not give a fuck, Admiral. I cannot…" Sherlock's head swivels towards his older brother. His gaze is full of fire. "I cannot do this right now, Mycroft. We have bigger issues to attend to. You have done enough to bring this mission to its knees." He studies Mycroft, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the slight stiffness to his movements. Sleeping on the floor in the cabin serves him right for being such a selfish ass.
Sherlock shakes his head back and forth. "No."
Mycroft just shuts his mouth and turns to walk away. He knows when to admit he has been knocked down a peg.
"Make yourself useful, Mycroft. Start by getting the Omaticaya off this moon." Mycroft turns back towards Sherlock's voice, though the captain is already back to being engrossed by whatever is on the screen, his long fingers flying over the old-fashioned keyboard. "Make it right." Sherlock growls. Mycroft nods as he yanks his e-book from his trousers, quickly composing a message to his second-in-command. He spreads his legs apart as a trembler rattles the laboratory. In the past twelve hours, the tremors have been coming more often.
The door slams open to admit Greg and George. The set of Greg's mouth tells Sherlock what he has already surmised: the situation outside is degrading rapidly. They share a look across the room as George chirps his report to Sherlock.
It has taken awhile and some practice, but Sherlock can now pick out enough of the Odal's lingo to understand about eighty percent of what he says. The other twenty percent he looks to Greg or Una to translate. Sherlock gives George a nod as he passes the desk. "Thank you." George leaves him with a wave of a few tentacles.
"Where is she now?" Sherlock asks Greg. Apparently, no translation was needed at all this time.
"Una is out there with John helping Mycr—the Admiral's crew get the last of the Omaticaya sorted and ready for transport-" Greg's words are cut off by yet another rumble from beneath their feet. "What George said is true, Sherlock, the trees, the grass, just everything, it all seems to be wilting, almost like Pandora has given up the will to live."
"It is not the moon itself, Greg. It is Ewya. She is pulling away from the moon, readying herself to be moved. When the last of the people finally embark, Pandora is going to implode."
Greg's eyes widen. He reaches up to yank the mask off of his head from where he pushed it a few minutes ago. He scratches at his scalp, his fingers making a general mess of his needing-a-haircut-soon silver locks. He sighs. "How…" He begins.
Sherlock finishes the thought for him. "We will be leaving at the same time. Our transport and the one carrying the people will lift off at the same time. No matter how I reason through each outcome, this is the only way." He sits back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. His boots have lost their shine, he thinks it a fitting metaphor to the way he is now feeling about this mission.
"Alright then." Greg leaves Sherlock to his thoughts so that he can go and pack.
Greg zips up his pack after smashing the last of his scant belongings into it. There is a knock on the door and it opens to admit Mycroft after Greg shouts "enter." Greg's first thought is that Mycroft looks lost. A small war takes place between his brain and his heart, only ending when he tears his eyes away from the admiral and back to his chore.
"I can't do this now, Mycroft."
"Would you even accept an apology?"
"I don't know. Is it really me you need to apologize to? I had no idea what this mission was when I signed on for it. To be honest with you, it has seriously been kind of dull for me. At least I've gotten some training hours in."Greg frowns.
In the doorway, Mycroft leans against the frame, his hands deep in his pockets. His entire body is a picture of guilt, though when Greg looks up Mycroft's eyes are a study in pain.
"You really feel something for me?"
"I believe I do."
"Fine. We will work through this." In a statement identical to his brother's, he says: "Make it right, Admiral." Greg shoves past him, pack in hand, pulling his rebreather mask down at the same time. Mycroft fights the urge to grab the other man by the hips and pull him back, to hold onto him, just for a moment. Right then, there is another tremor. This one is stronger and the lights flicker on and off for a few seconds. He whispers to his retreating lover, "I am not sure if I am capable."
Finally, they are all outside next to the transport pods. Within two hours, the situation has deteriorated even more dramatically. The sky has taken on an ominous slate grey hue; there is no breeze to speak of. It is almost as if the entire planet has gone still and quiet: waiting.
Waiting for what is the question.
John stands aside, watching everyone board the transport ship. It is a tiny thing, really only made to seat four comfortably; in this instance it will be filled with not only six passengers, but also their gear and personal belongings.
Every time there is a rumble underfoot he suppresses a shudder. It is unnerving how quickly everything has changed. From making love under the Tree of Souls to where they are now in less than a week's time…this is certainly one of the most unique missions they have been on. Finally, only he and the captain are left standing outside the pod. Sherlock holds up a hand to the driver of the pod carrying the Omaticaya and she nods at him. Through the windshield of the ship, they can see her tap her own ear piece as she waits for the Admiral's next instructions. John gives her a little wave and then ducks into the pod, Sherlock on his heels.
Inside the pod it is close and warm. Mycroft is in the driver's seat, Una next to him. Behind Mycroft, George sits next to an empty seat. Directly behind him in the cargo area, Greg is straddling his pack, John's is on the ground next to him. John pats Sherlock's shoulder as he steps forward to join Greg, considering that with Sherlock's height it will be easier for him to stretch out a somewhat normal seat. Sherlock gives him a tight-lipped expression and takes the set behind Una.
There is virtually no sound in the cabin except for Mycroft's voice issuing orders through his ear-piece. Even from where he sits, John can hear the answers of both the other transport driver as well as whomever is currently in charge up on the Proto-Tethys.
"The ride back is going to take longer than the ride in, so please make yourselves comfortable." Mycroft says to everyone and no one in general. The tension between all of them is coiled tight: they are all questioning the trust placed in one another. He flips a switch on the dashboard next to the stick and starts counting down. On the count of five, they can feel the pod slowly begin to rise, its twin engines whirring and humming evenly. Sherlock stretches out, resting his hands beneath his head, which just happens to be within John's reach. He allows a brief touch of two fingers to those wild curls, just for a moment to connect. His touch tells Sherlock that he is still hurt and upset to have been left behind, though it will never come between them.
The small craft lurches as it gains altitude, rocking left and right with winds that up until now have been dormant. Greg takes in a deep gasp and George hoots in a worried manner. Greg speaks to the Odal softly under his breath and there is an answering snort, then they are all quiet once again.
Looking out the tiny window next to him, Sherlock can watch the ascension of the pod carrying Le'tay and the others. He rests his forehead against the cool polyvinyl and cannot stop the feeling of failure that threatens to overtake him.
Suddenly, there is a crack and a huge bolt of lightning passes in front of the craft.
"It has begun." Sherlock whispers.
"Look!" Una shouts, pointing towards the windshield, her voice muffled slightly behind the face shield of her mask.
The sky is full of ikran of all colors, the massive animals flying between the two pods. John is grieved to know that every one of these animals is going to die. There is absolutely no way to save them. He wonders briefly if they are aware of what is happening. After his time with Ewya, he is in no doubt.
Then there is the horrible sound of an injured animal screaming its rage at the universe. The pod rocks maniacally, throwing them all about the tiny cabin. John picks himself off of the floor, Greg doing the same beside him. George has gone even more green in color than he generally is and Mycroft is concentrating so hard on maintaining altitude in the craft that he does not see the ikran coming in from the left flank before it hits the pod with a sick thud. The sound of the polyvinyl window cracking and the hissing of air as the cabin begins to lose pressure is the sound of his nightmares.
He turns to look and sees Una hanging on to her seat with both hands, sharp teeth showing in a grimace. Her hair is blowing upward towards the roof of the pod, giving her an even more ethereal look than usual. John and Greg are both moving, though Mycroft can only spare them a few seconds glance, with the change in pressure inside the cabin, the entire craft is becoming more and more difficult to steer by the second.
"No!" He shouts, but he cannot let go of the stick now or they will plummet to their own deaths. After everything that has transpired, he will not lose them all now.