Endgame (16 page)

“Listen up. We’re going to start teaching these people how to fight.”

“We can’t,” Rikir protests.

Farah is nodding, a smile widening on her lovely face. “We can if they don’t hit anyone, if we drill it as exercise and repetitive motion.”

An admiring light glimmers in Loras’s eyes. “Precisely as I intended.”

Bannie follows the thought to its conclusion. “So by the time they all take the full course of treatments, they’ll know something about self-defense.”

“Do you think they’ll all step up?” Timmon asks.

Loras shrugs. “It must be their choice. I won’t force my will on anyone else, or that makes me no better than”—he cuts me an apologetic look—“the humans.”

At that moment, I realize I’m a minority of one. I mean, I
knew
I was the only human in the cell, but it doesn’t register until I have nine pairs of alien eyes trained on me. I manage a smile, but I’m feeling like there’s a target on my back at the moment.

“Yeah, sorry. I can’t help my genetics. Take your frustration out on me if it’ll make you feel better, but don’t mess up my pretty face.”

That makes Rikir laugh because, on a good day, I’m
not
pretty. Strong-featured, sure, striking, maybe, in the right light, but I’ve never been “pretty.” That breaks the tension, and I stride away before they decide they’d like to play pound the human.

The next week passes quickly.

On the final day of treatments, false bravado pervades the village. It’s especially tense and hellish as Farah and I finish the treatments one by one. Then comes the waiting with our squad-mates standing by in case something goes wrong. Mary, it’ll be so traumatic if—

And then we’re done.

Not a single loss. I close my eyes in thanks while the La’hengrin cheer. Fights break out immediately, and one of the women drops to her knees, weeping. She rubs a splayed palm back and forth across her chest, like she can feel the loosening of the tethers that keep her subservient to the Imperial government.

Loras clasps my shoulder. “Your idea about the screenings helped. I’m guessing we would’ve lost some of them.”

“That’s not a wholly accurate predictor,” Farah points out. “We lost a few before, and I had their health records. They were good, strong candidates.”

They go off together, arguing, while the men around me stand down. Bannie discreetly wipes away a tear, watching the volunteers react to their first moments of freedom. Xirol’s
mock fighting with one of the men, and Rikir is explaining that if the centurions come back for any reason, the villagers can’t reveal their new liberty.

I second that. “True. It has to seem like nothing has changed. Or they’ll come down on you. That can’t happen.”

“Understood.” Deven stands in the clinic doorway. “Is it possible for me to get into the next group?”

His wife, Darana, steps out from behind him. “Me too?”

“Sure,” I say. “It would be a big help if you could take this handheld and enter all the names of those who want to join you. We’ll proceed in the same way, doing screenings first, then another week.”

Deven nods. “In a month, you’ll have treated everyone here, except those who have health problems.”

“That’s the plan. Then you’ll all be free to join the resistance. If you’re interested, we supply room and board…no pay at the moment, and you’ll be sent out to do for others what we’ve done here.”

At first, this will be a quiet, sneaky sort of war. We must build our army before we engage on a larger scale. The key will be doing enough damage to keep the planet on lockdown without permitting them to run us to ground. That’ll be a challenge.

“I don’t have any skills. I can’t fight—”

“We’ll teach you if you want to learn.”

Later that night, Xirol finds a period vid set in the days before humans came to La’heng. It’s bloody, sexy, barbaric, and way over the top, probably of dubious cultural accuracy, but the people love it, especially those who survived the cure. Because now they
can
smash someone in the head with a rock. Not that I support violence as a solution to every situation, but if you can’t even defend yourself, and you need a keeper like a child, then it starts looking pretty appealing.

While Farah and I do medical screenings, the guys teach the combat classes for the La’heng. The first crop of cured volunteers can spar while the second group practices the movements purely as exercise. The days are routine, but I stay sharp, with an eye on the sky, just in case.
So far, so good.

But that just makes me nervous.

In the end, when trouble comes, it’s not from above.

On the fifteenth day, I’m sitting beside Farah, finishing the treatments, when the first patient runs amok. I wasn’t around during the trials when Carvati first described the damage, and when Loras quietly did his recruiting in the capital, I was working with Tarn, Leviter, and Vel to handle the bureaucratic end.

So this is my first time, close up, to see the eyes run red. Blood fills the sclera, until the woman’s eyes are like marbles on a bed of red silk. It’s horrifying—and then she lunges at me, her teeth bared. Rikir grabs her from behind, preventing her from tearing out my throat in two bites.

“Darana, no!” It’s Deven, who just graduated as a free La’heng.

Xirol restrains him, too, but he’s not insane, just…heartbroken. She’s his wife, and she’s dying of bloodlust. His face a mask of pain, Loras holds out his hand for the hypo we keep ready, just in case. It’s a kind death, a chemical cocktail that stops the heart. Loras sinks it into her arm while Deven screams her name over and over again. He’s just about strong enough in his grief to kick Xirol’s ass, so Zeeka and Vel step between him and his wife.

Darana collapses; Rikir lowers her gently to the ground. With her eyes closed, she doesn’t reveal the madness. Her face is calm and quiet when she breathes her last. Nobody moves. I can’t stop shaking. It was
my
hand holding the hypo that drove her mad.

“You killed her!” Deven shouts at me.

“No.” Loras meets his gaze. “I did. I realize it’s no comfort. You loved her. But don’t blame Jax. Blame me. And save your anger for the centurions. They’ve earned your wrath.”

“Let me go. I must…see to her.” When they’re sure Deven won’t attack, Vel, Xirol, and Zeeka step out of the way.

With heartrending tenderness, he gathers Darana’s body into his arms and strides from the clinic. He isn’t the same timid man we met a few weeks ago. From such tragic moments are heroes made. I just wish the price hadn’t been so high.

Farah beckons her next patient forward. Not surprisingly, the man hesitates. There are five more volunteers in the second group, and none of them look sure anymore. I sit quiet.
I’m not talking anyone into anything. They know the risks; they know the potential rewards.

The silence stretches like a taut wire, gradually thinning, until a woman steps forward bravely, offers her arm to Farah, and closes her eyes. I hold my breath as she receives the injection, but she’s all right. And then all the others gather their resolve. There are no more deaths today, but I don’t kid myself that this is over. The last round of treatment will be complicated, now that we’ve had our first casualty.

It’s been days since I’ve seen Vel for more than a few moments, and we’re always surrounded by other squad-mates. I go looking for him through the village, which is in much better repair than when we arrived. Lots of supplies have made their way down the mountain, appropriated by people who no longer fear Imperial reprisal. They trust us enough to keep the boot off their necks at least.

I stop Zeeka, and ask, “Have you seen Vel?”

“He’s up at the mining station.”

A walk won’t hurt me. I don my helmet and start off at a jog, but soon the altitude forces me to slow my steps. The air is thinner. I’m mostly used to it now, except during vigorous activity. When I reach the top, the gate stands open, and some of the metal has been scavenged for use down below. It makes me happy to see this place being repurposed.

I find Vel in the office where the fight took place. The bloodstains remain on the floor, but it’s been long enough that the smell has faded. He’s listening to logs and making notes on his handheld when I walk in; I remove my helmet so he can see my face.

He glances up with a welcoming cant of his head and greets me in Ithtorian. “Sirantha. Did you finish?”

Mentally, I tell my chip to switch, and when I speak, it’s with my vocalizer. The clicks and chitters make it easier to confide, “We had a casualty.”

She won’t be the last, but seeing Deven, hearing his raw anguish, well, I feel pretty shaken. I need…I need
Vel
.

And he knows. Before I take a step, he’s out of his chair and has taken four. Then he’s right there with me, chitin to armor. He rubs his face against the side of mine, such a comforting gesture. My chip processes the Ithtorian, and I know
he’s murmuring to me,
Shh, brown bird. Still your wings.
From anyone else, brown bird as an endearment would insult me, but with him, it’s perfect.

“I do not care for your armor,” he says eventually.

I gaze up at him in surprise. That’s the first time he’s commented on how I feel: good, bad, or otherwise. It seems so personal. Our connection has always been more about kindred spirits than the state of our bodies. Things are complicated between us already, and the comment startles me.

Apparently, he reads my confusion, explaining, “It makes you feel Ithtorian. Combined with hearing you speak so, it is…disconcerting.”

Yeah, I can see how it would be. “Do you want me to take it off?”

The question comes out more suggestive than it sounded
in my head. For a moment, I freeze, but this is Vel. He’s never going to assume a meaning I don’t intend or look for the lascivious angle. That’s outside his nature. With a human male, I’d have to worry about stupid jokes. His sense of humor doesn’t extend to the ribald, at least not so far as I’ve seen.

“Yes,” he replies. “You do not feel like yourself.”

So I strip out of my armor to the uniform beneath. I’m wrinkled, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to win any prizes for my appearance. Since it’s my only set, I pile the gear carefully on a chair, then Vel reaches for me. His arms are long, oddly jointed, and they end in razor-sharp talons. I should be afraid of his solace as it can rip me to shreds, but his natural weapons make his care all the more remarkable.

The shards of pain and regret in my chest settle somewhat when he draws me against him. I lean my head against his thorax, marveling that this seems so natural. When I first saw him out of his camouflage, he was hunting me…and I was terrified. So many turns have passed between then and now. Everything has changed.

“Tell me about the woman we lost,” he invites.

As I speak, he moves us toward the small sofa the centurions spent most of their lives sprawled on. It’s ratty and threadbare, but at least we have some privacy here. I’m tired of being quartered in the church, surrounded by snoring soldiers. Vel guides me to a seat as I relate meeting her, how it came to pass, her husband’s reaction, and the way I feel about being the one who gave her the shot that led to her death. Speaking of it leaves my throat raw from the tears I can’t let go because I don’t have the right. I didn’t know her. I only hurt her. Sometimes, good intentions don’t matter at all.

“Everyone chooses, Sirantha. I doubt she regrets her decision.”

“Do you ever wonder where people go? If there’s anything to Mary, the Iglogth, or whatever people call their gods?”

“So many things remind me of Adele that…” Here, he hesitates, studying me with his side-set eyes as if gauging my reaction. “…I feel that she is with me still. So perhaps I
want
it to be true more than I believe it must be.”

I smile. “I hope you’re right.”

“I miss her.” The chip translates his meaning simply, yet there comes a more literal echo in my head, as if he’s said,
My home is gone from me.
Ithtorian is a beautiful language, full of poetry and nuance.

“I do, too.”

He draws me against his side then because he will offer me comfort where he can’t ask for it himself. Because I know he grieves for longer than some species live, I curl into his side. His claws find my hair, surprisingly soothing when he draws them through in long strokes. It’s an absent caress like you’d give a pet, but I don’t mind.

“Did I ever tell you she asked me to marry her?” he asks.

Surprise rockets through me. “No.”

He told me a lovely story about how they met, how she came to find the truth about him, and, eventually, why he left. But I’ve not heard this.

I have to ask, “Was this before or after she found out—”

“Before.”

“Ah. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“If you like.”

“Only if it doesn’t hurt to talk about her.”

“Remembering feels better,” he says. “Because you knew her, too.”

“Then go for it.” I love the way Vel tells stories.

“Adele came to my residence for a meal, that night. And she asked, ‘Vel, do you love me?’ I had heard the word before, but I had no reference for its meaning. I was new to the idea of feeling anything but pride, ambition, duty, obligation…those are Ithtorian precepts.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes because I could see the answer she wanted. She kissed me. Then she said, ‘Marry me.’”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I could not marry her without telling her the truth. And I feared honesty would cost me her companionship.”

“So you thought about it.”

“Yes,” he says softly. “I wanted a tangible bond. But it did not seem fair to her.”

“How did you get out of it without hurting her?”

“I said I did not believe in the custom.”

“She was all right with that?”

He nods. “She never mentioned it again after that. And a few turns later, she discovered the truth.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“I have shared with you things that no one else knows, Sirantha.”