Page 11 of Last Chance to Save the World (Chaotic Orbits #3)

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T he color drains from Rian’s face. “They moved the bots?” When I don’t answer, he curses. “They moved the fucking bots.”

Makes sense. We are cutting it this close to launch so that the climate cleaners are released before anyone notices we reverted the code to the originally approved design. But this close to launch means that they can be moved earlier than scheduled, and there’s not a single fucking thing we can do about it without tipping our hand.

“Where would they be moved to?” I demand, gripping Rian’s arms, noting the tight muscles under his sleeves. I have to get him to refocus, and fast.

Rian shakes his head. “I went over every plan. They were not supposed to be moved yet.”

“Well, the plan’s changed.” I dip my head, forcing him to make eye contact. “Where could they be?”

“They’re launching from the communications tower,” Rian says. “Rooftop.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The thing is: it’s not like you just open Pandora’s box of nanobots and they fly up like accommodating little drones. No, the bots have to be actively launched. From a computer terminal—one that I can hack. So even if I have to change location last-minute, it’s not too late.

“Can you get me there?” I demand.

Rian’s mouth is tight. He’s not the kind of man to just answer first and think it through later. I know in his mind, he’s running through every possible path this deviation has created. Getting into the communications room will mean less security to clear than in the server room but more possible witnesses. Human ones who won’t be distracted by my sun shield, who won’t give me a fifteen-minute grace period to override their suspicions.

While all the workers in the climate-cleaner program are probably already digging in to the caterers’ trays, there will be workers in the communication tower not invited to the party. We have to get past them...somehow.

“I think we can do it,” he says finally.

So many emotions flicker over his face—most of them rooted in panic—that I’m a little worried the man’s going to flop over here on the floor.

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I don’t like this either, but—” I start.

“We have to,” he finishes. Rian’s eyes meet mine, and even if I can still see the unease in them, there’s determination there, too.

“One goal,” I remind him gently.

Full speed until we get it.

We take off running. Everyone in the building is either one floor below us, taking advantage of all the delicious food, or one floor up, with Fetor’s elite. Not everyone’s getting an invite up the golden elevator.

But the communications office is a big glass room built atop the roof, with a launch zone and antennas sticking up over it. Like old-school airport traffic-control rooms, that office never closes. There will be workers there.

But that’s the thing. They’ll be working. Everyone in that room has a job to do. They’ll be focused on that.

I hope.

“We just have to act like we belong,” I say for myself as much as Rian. “People don’t question authority.”

Rian shoots me a withering look as he scans his fingerprint on the elevator-call button. “All you do is question authority.”

“Yeah, but most people aren’t like me.”

“Thankfully,” he mutters. I choose to ignore that.

Instead, I focus on everything I know about the communications room at Fetor Tech while we wait for the elevator.

This is the communication hub for the entire galactic system, so of course I’ve researched this before. The communication office is the foundational network for the portal system. It never goes down. It never fails—despite being associated with Strom Fetor. It’s one of those things in society, like the power grid, the healthcare system, or travel regulations, that if it goes down, all of society is impacted. Although run by the private Fetor Tech company, it’s heavily monitored and works hand-in-hand with the government, which uses the comm system developed into the portal rings for all intergalactic communication.

“Nervous?” Rian asks as a bell announces the arrival of the lift.

I force my hands to still. I had been practicing the movements I need for the next play, but I should have known he’d notice.

“Never.” I shoot him a grin.

“Yeah, same.” He jabs the button for the roof after holding the door for me to go inside first.

We don’t talk. A million random different thoughts—half of them questions about when the food will be available—boil up to my teeth, but I keep my mouth closed.

Focus.

The doors slide open.

Rian steps out first.

We’re in a glass-covered walkway, and while the floor beneath our feet is covered in lush carpet, beyond the clear tube there’s just cement and the rest of the roof. The path takes us directly to a large building that takes up about a quarter of the space, on the eastern side, closest to Triumph Square. The rest of the roof is littered with poles and towers; when I crane my neck up, I can almost see the tips of the various satellites and receivers the communication system uses.

“Focus,” Rian says, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the offices. At the door, he has to do another security check—PIN pad, face and hand scans—but when the doors glide open, I just step in with him, basically cramming through the till. It’s inelegant but effective.

We’re in.

For one breathless moment, I wait to see if there’s a secondary scan to stop us from doing just this. But no computerized voice pipes up. None of the workers even glance our way. I was right. This is a place of work, and everyone’s too focused on their own high-stakes job to notice anyone else’s arrival.

Rian’s still tense, his eyes scanning the room at large, trying to see where the nanobots have been placed.

But my eyes are on the pedestal right in the center of the room.

And the red telephone perched atop it in place of honor.

At the gala on Rigel-Earth, my main goal was acquiring Rian and convincing him that the nanobots had been infected with malware and we needed to do this whole subterfuge.

But I had a personal, secondary goal.

The Museum of Intergalactic History houses a lot of artifacts linked to the development of intergalactic travel. Including, formerly, this red telephone, the same one that was used during the Apollo launches and was once housed at the Mission Control Room in the Houston Space Center way back in the twentieth century. It’s an iconic object that was witness to the first steps of humanity in space.

It shouldn’t be here , in the private collection of the galaxy’s richest dumbass, but I suppose that’s my fault. I did sort of convince Strom Fetor that he needed the telephone and that it should be right here, and then I maybe manipulated the museum to give it to him after averting a terrorist attack that was actually, for once, not my fault at all. I really didn’t get enough credit for that.

Before, I told Rian I don’t like strings, but they’re not so bad when I’m the one pulling them.

Gotta work quick now.

While Rian’s on high alert, looking for the nanobots, my hand snakes out to the telephone on display. I’m a little shocked it’s just sitting there. I mean, I did absolutely suggest this very location and rolled the dice that Fetor would obey, but still. If this phone were mine, I’d...I don’t know, but I wouldn’t just put it on a little pedestal in the middle of a room where it’s mostly being ignored and not appreciated and where anyone—like me, for example, can pick it up.

“Ada!” Rian hisses when he finally notices what I’m doing. The red receiver is still in my hand. My god, I did not expect it to be that easy.

“What?” I ask Rian innocently, tossing the receiver into my other hand, watching the way the coiled cord wiggles.

“Put that back,” he says. “We need to find—”

His eyes widen.

I feel the presence of someone behind me.

I set the receiver down slowly, then turn to face Strom Fetor himself.

“Houston,” he says, looking down at us, “we have a problem.”