Inside the shadowed chamber, muffled voices echoed off the smooth walls. They were small whispers in an otherwise quiet tomb-like space. From memory, Samuel pictured the T-shaped layout of the chamber, and he was likely in the middle of the long corridor, leading to the rectangular opening which housed the protocol equipment.
His took measured steps, trying hard to absorb the noise of his shoes on the metal planking. Mostly, he was succeeding. In the main chamber, he made out two figures ahead at the back-up interface. Their backs were to him. Samuel ducked into the rows of blinking equipment shelves, stealthily inching closer to the voices.
One of them, younger-sounding like Jason, said something like, "---I know."
Another, more familiar voice that probably belonged to Kathar, stated, "The Storm chooses the strong, and discards the weak."
It was an odd statement in a decidedly odd situation. For Samuel, it filled in theoretical holes he would have to unpack later.
At the moment, he had to ensure the radicals didn't disable the back-up. Momentarily, he longed for a pistol. As a precaution, he'd left it in the lock box under his bed, lest he run into Tiptree or Russ and indiscriminately shoot. He cursed his overly cautious nature, which had cost him again.
Holding his breath, Samuel edged to the corner of a shelf. From there, he could see the two without them seeing him. Or so he hoped.
They were deciding something, with Jason shaking his head, and Kathar urging him on.
"It's not working," Jason sighed, fingers flying over the back-up interface. "They added an audio passkey."
Silently, Samuel thanked Russ for her brilliance.
"Hmm." Kathar's brows squeezed together as he seemed to consider this. "Not that it matters much. Let's go."
Still breathing as little as possible, Samuel stood straight, hoping the shelves would save him from being noticed. Footfalls rebounded loudly, indicating one or both were close as hell. He tightened one fist, his only weapon. Then, the footfalls began to recede, clanking on the metal walkway in the corridor.
Samuel blew out a long and loud breath. His heart thumped in his ears and threatened to beat outside of his chest. He drew in a series of half-calming breaths before leaving his hiding spot.
Holding the sides to steady himself, Samuel assessed the interface for corruption. Quietly, he commanded, "Diagnostic scan."
Suddenly paranoid, he checked behind him, but he was alone.
Continuing, he averted attention to the back-up interface screen that read:
DIANOSTIC COMPLETE.
PAYLOAD IS FULLY OPERATIONAL.
Another long sigh escaped his lungs. There was still a chance. By some miracle, he wasn't too late.
Without another thought, he spat out, "Continuity error, continuity error, conti-fucking-nuity error."
PAYLOAD INITIALIZED.
The interface counted down, "In, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1."
A whirring sounded as the mechanisms for the system unlocked, then a fluid whoosh as a large flume was released from the ship.
"Fly my pretties, fly," Samuel murmured.
The oblong shape held durachambers and provisions for hundreds. Instead of carrying already infected Institute members, the durachambers cocooned newly cloned volunteers.
They had been grown to adulthood, but had never been wakened from durachamber stasis. Being nurtured in the volatile fluid could result in serious mental instabilities. There was a chance the clones could wake up psychotic. But it was a chance that Samuel and others at The Institute were willing to take. It was their only and last chance in the event of mission failure. With all that had happened of late, Samuel had calculated imminent mission failure.
Via the interface, he watched the flume floating in the velvet darkness of space, beginning the short journey to Sanctus. It was a bittersweet experience. On the one hand, he felt a wretched failure. He was suppose to save the damn world. On the other, sweet relief wrecked him. With the back-up protocol enacted, he was done.
Just then, a second flume rushed alongside the first.
"What the hell is that?"
His rhetorical question aside, Samuel had a twisting suspicion. Kathar and Jason had made their side trip to Kevrun for a reason.
And I'm looking at it.
He recognized the design. Slightly larger and bulkier than its predecessor, the flume was built for the same reason. Populate. Species continuity. Yet, eyes alight on the conical twin, it was clear to Samuel that it didn't carry anything for the greater good.
The Storm chooses the strong, and discards the weak.
Too late, the computer alerted an unauthorized access to the back-up protocol.
"Can---" his words stalled, and he cleared his throat to try again, "Cancel second system launch."
"Unable to connect without belaying the first launch. Would you like to cancel both?"
A sinking sensation, not unlike doom, washed over him.
"Yes, cancel both," Samuel croaked.
Whatever was in the second flume was tied to the contagion. And if he had sent the first back-up, The Storm would've destroyed their last chance.
The two flumes floated aimlessly, having disengaged from the remote piloting system. The elation he had felt was replaced by full-blown despair.
Samuel understood how Rotsberg must've felt when he hadn't reached back. When he had allowed her to fall.