Chapter 87
[Rose's POV]
Tuesday afternoon arrived with the weight of accumulated exhaustion. The morning exams had passed in a blur—mathematics, chemistry, English. My hand cramped from hours of writing, my eyes burned from focusing on dense text. But it was history class, the final exam of the day, that brought the interruption.
I sat in the third row, pencil moving steadily across the answer sheet.
Professor Patricia Wilson stopped beside me. Her hand reached down and gently closed my exam booklet.
"Evans," she said quietly, her voice carefully neutral. "Please come with me."
The classroom fell silent. Thirty pairs of eyes swiveled toward us. I looked up at Patricia, searching her face for explanation. She gave a slight shake of her head—not here, not now.
I stood, leaving my pencil on the desk. The scrape of my chair against linoleum echoed too loudly. Every student watched as I followed Patricia toward the door, their expressions ranging from curiosity to schadenfreude.
The hallway stretched empty and bright after the dim classroom. Patricia closed the door behind us with a soft click, then turned to face me. Her usual stern expression had shifted to something I couldn't quite read—concern mixed with bewilderment.
"The principal is waiting for you at the main entrance," she said. "There's someone here to see you. Someone from MIT."
My heart stuttered. MIT.
We walked in silence through the corridors. My shoes squeaked against the polished floor. Through classroom windows, I glimpsed other students bent over their exams, oblivious to whatever crisis had pulled me from mine.
Mr. Davis stood at the main entrance, his usually composed face showing clear signs of agitation. He straightened when he saw us approaching, adjusting his tie with quick, nervous movements.
"Miss Evans." He cleared his throat. "Professor Robinson from MIT is here. She says it's urgent—something about a research emergency." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "She also mentioned that you're Professor Thompson's protégé."
"I'll need to leave," I said simply. "How should I handle the exam?"
Mr. Davis waved a hand dismissively. "We'll work something out. A makeup exam, or—" He stopped himself, seeming to realize the absurdity of discussing test logistics when MIT was calling. "Just go. We'll figure out the details later."
The autumn air hit my face as we stepped outside. A sleek black sedan idled at the curb, its engine purring softly. Beside it stood Ashley, her short dark hair catching the afternoon sunlight. The hearing aids in both ears gleamed like small pieces of technology trying to bridge an impossible gap.
Ashley's face broke into a relieved smile when she saw me.
"Rose." She spoke aloud while signing simultaneously, her voice carefully modulated. "Thank God. We need to leave immediately."
Mr. Davis stepped forward, extending his hand. "Owen Harrison, principal of Boston Prep. Please, don't worry about the timing, Professor Robinson."
Ashley shook his hand briefly. "The disruption is mine to apologize for. Borrowing one of your students during exam week—I know it's irregular." Her gaze flicked to me, urgent. "But this truly cannot wait."
"Of course." The principal's voice had taken on that particular tone of deference that came from recognizing someone's academic pedigree. "Miss Evans is free to go. Her education here is important, but opportunities like this—" He left the sentence unfinished, smiling at me with an expression I'd never seen before. Respect. Possibly even awe.
I climbed into the car's back seat. Ashley slid in beside me as the driver pulled smoothly into traffic. The leather seats still held warmth from the afternoon sun.
"What happened?" I asked once we'd cleared the school grounds.
Ashley pulled a tablet from her briefcase, her fingers trembling slightly as she unlocked the screen. "The Russian government." She turned the tablet toward me. Charts and trajectory data filled the display, red warning indicators scattered across multiple graphs. "They decided to take matters into their own hands with the asteroid. Launched a missile strike to correct the trajectory deviation we'd calculated."
My stomach dropped. "They what?"
"Exactly." Ashley's jaw tightened. "No consultation with international partners. No peer review of their models. They just fired a goddamn missile at a space rock traveling at forty thousand kilometers per hour and hoped for the best."
I took the tablet, scrolling through the data. The orbital parameters told a story of chaos. What should have been a predictable elliptical path now looked like a drunk mathematician's sketch—erratic, unstable, completely unpredictable.
"The impact altered everything," Ashley continued. "Mass distribution, rotational velocity, even the composition. We think fragments broke off, but we won't know for certain until we get better sensor data." She rubbed her temples. "The Chinese are screaming about sovereignty violations. The Europeans are threatening sanctions. And meanwhile, this rock is spinning through space on a trajectory we can't predict anymore."
The car merged onto the highway, accelerating smoothly. But we weren't heading toward MIT's main campus. The driver took an exit that led away from Cambridge, toward the western suburbs.
"Where are we going?" I asked, though part of me already knew.
"Lincoln Laboratory." Ashley pulled out a thin folder stamped with classification markings I recognized from another lifetime. "The defense department is involved now. This isn't just academic research anymore, Rose. If that asteroid's new trajectory brings it anywhere near a populated area—" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
"What do you need from me?" I asked.
Ashley's expression softened slightly. "Your brain."