This Shattered World (35 page)

Gunfire roars in the distance as Jubilee and I cross the base. The air splits with the crack of the old-fashioned ballistics weapons the Fianna use and the shriek of the deadly Gleidels. The stench of singed plastene and burned chemicals hangs in the air. I want to put as much distance as I can between us and the holding cells. Away from Turlough Doyle, away from Molly’s, which will never be Molly’s again. As my feet drag and I start to stumble, Jubilee grabs at my arm to keep me moving.

McBride.
For all our differences, for all his thirst for war, I always believed we wanted the same thing—prosperity for Avon, peace and justice for our people.

But he murdered Fergal. He murdered Mike. He murdered every person who lay dead in our sanctuary, just to light the fuse behind this war. And now Molly, because he wouldn’t betray Jubilee.

And he’s still out there somewhere, with Sean.
Oh God.

I’m jerked back to the present as the com-patch on Jubilee’s sleeve buzzes, and she ducks into the shelter of a building to hear it better. The voice is tinny with interference, but familiar. “Lee, this is Merendsen, report.”

She lifts her wrist to speak into the patch. “Go ahead, sir.”

Merendsen’s voice is muffled, but clearly identifiable. “Lee, Commander Towers has raised your threat level and ordered all nonessentials off the base and off Avon. That includes me.”

“Because of Molly’s?” She closes her eyes as she speaks his name.

“Because they’ve confirmed the Fianna have anti-aircraft weaponry. The next shuttle out of here could be the last, and I’m on it. I’m willing to accept the risk if I stay, but the commander said if I don’t board myself, she’ll have me escorted. I’m heading for the orbital spaceport. You’re my security detail, but if you aren’t here to pilot it, someone else will.” He pauses, the static hissing. “I wouldn’t mind a chance to say good-bye.” Though the words are casual, I can tell what he’s trying to say.
I tried to stay, they won’t let me. I have to talk to you before I go.
But their comm system is not private.

“On my way,” she replies, pushing her shoulders back, voice crisp. Back on duty, Captain Chase once again. Whatever Merendsen has to tell her, we need to hear it more than ever.

“There’s one more thing, Captain.”

“Sir?”

“They’re rounding up all the civilians over in the mess hall for a security check, scanning their genetags.” He pauses, the silence hanging heavily. “If you see any, you should send them that way.”

She looks across at me, her gaze worried. “Got it, sir. Thanks for the heads-up,” she replies, voice even.

My mind’s still thick with fog—McBride’s name beats against my skull like a drum. But then Jubilee’s yanking my sleeve down more, better hiding the spiraled code of my genetag tattoo. Then she plants a hand between my shoulder blades, and with a shove, she gets me moving.

We break into a jog toward the launch bays. An explosion echoes in from the swamps, a shuddering reminder of McBride’s madness. And we’re about to lose our only connection to LaRoux Industries, our only chance to find out what’s killing Avon.

The girl is searching for her November ghost. She is so certain that it’s here, somewhere, in the endless halls and chambers. It’s never left her before, and a ghost shouldn’t care what planet she’s on. She’s been searching for hours. The orphanage is emptier on the inside than it is on the outside, and she’ll never search all the rooms.

In one of the dormitories is a miniscreen, smuggled in by one of the other children, old-fashioned but durable. The room is empty, but someone has left the screen on to crackle and jar the silence. On it, a woman is talking about a war ending on some planet far away, as hovercopter footage of destruction and refugees scrolls by.

The girl looks at the screen, and the city is November.

But when she moves closer, she realizes it can’t be her November. The city on the screen is healing, buildings being rebuilt, children there in the street lighting firecrackers. It looks like a toy, a model, a copy of where she used to live; images on a screen will never be real for her.

The November inside her was torn apart, and it always will be.

And the November ghost is gone.

MY BODY’S PROTESTING THIS ABUSE
. The constant fighting, running, hiding. Not enough sleep, and too much grief. I can feel it burning through my blood as I run harder, aiming for the launch bays. If I’m not there to pilot Merendsen’s shuttle, I’ll lose my chance to find out whether he heard back from Lilac—and judging by the urgency in his tone, I’m sure he did. We have to have that information. I haven’t even told him or Flynn about Commander Towers yet. What could I possibly say?

I focus on my aching muscles as I run. I’m trying not to think about Molly; I’m trying not to imagine him at gunpoint, still refusing to tell McBride where I am.

My eyes water from some mix of grief and cold air, and I lift a hand to dash the sparks of moisture away. I can hear Flynn half a step behind me—when I speed up, he speeds up with me. A couple of weeks ago I would’ve been surprised he could keep up. Not anymore. I never thought life in the swamps was a picnic, but I didn’t know how closely his training—because it was training, even if he wasn’t in uniform—resembled mine.

Our route takes us past the mess hall. What looks like half the civilian population of the base is in there, the long line snaking around between tables and benches. A couple of uniforms make their way along the line, and in anticipation the civilians are rolling up their sleeves to offer up their ’tags for scanning. Security only caught one of the perpetrators at Molly’s. Everyone else who’s not military has to prove they’re supposed to be here.

The launch bay is a series of long, low, massive hangars that only stretch to two stories aboveground but drop underground to hold all the vehicles, military and civilian alike, associated with the base and the town. One of the curved roofs is open, a sign that a craft’s about to take off—or just did.

We skid to a halt outside the door, and I turn to Flynn. “Okay. Remember your cover story as Molly’s cousin. You’ve got every right to be here. Act like you’re thinking of leaving Avon now that Molly’s—” My voice cracks, and over the tangle of emotions rising in me, I choose anger. It’s easier to deal with. “Now that Molly’s gone. That should delay them scanning you awhile.”

He nods. “Got it. Where do I go once you’re shuttling Merendsen away?”

I’m still catching my breath. “You hide. Maybe in my quarters, if they don’t search the base. I don’t know where you go after that—back out into the swamp again. I don’t know.”

I don’t know.
Some of my least favorite words in the galaxy, and I’ve been saying them a lot lately.

The launch bay’s always busy, but today it’s absolute chaos. Flynn joins a group of civilians milling about in the passenger area, blending in like he was born to, and I resist the urge to look back at him as I head toward one of the traffic controllers, a short middle-aged man I recognize. There’s an engine warming up nearby and I’m forced to shout.

“Merendsen?” I holler, leaning close. “The guy from TerraDyn here to evaluate security?”

The controller peers past me, then throws a gesture in the direction of a shuttle four or five down from me. “Better hurry—everyone’s taking off soon.”

I catch Flynn’s eye back in the crowd, signal my destination, and then head toward a group of uniformed officers near the shuttle. Merendsen’s there—I breathe a sigh of relief when I see his familiar features.

He spots me and pulls away from the officer shaking his hand in order to come toward me. “Captain,” he calls, tension in his voice. I catch sight of Flynn, who’s headed up to us at a jog.

“Hey,” he calls loudly, offering his hand to shake. “Sorry you’re headed out.”

Merendsen claps his palm to Flynn’s. But when he speaks, his voice is pitched lower, barely audible to me over the engines all around us. “I’ve heard from Lilac. It’s a message. She couldn’t risk a verbal transmission, but she got some text through. We have a code, whenever we can’t speak face-to-face. I’ve decoded it for you, here.” He shoves a crumpled piece of paper into my palm. “Read it when you’re alone.”

“Sir,” I manage, trying to look casual while keeping an eye on the military personnel swarming around the various shuttles. At the far end of the hangar, one takes off upward with a roar, the noise providing perfect cover for our voices. “Thank you.”

His gaze fixes on mine, his voice low. “Lee, listen to me. These creatures LaRoux is using, they aren’t bad themselves. But if he’s found a way to compel them, then I don’t know what he might be capable of. Just—be careful. Please.”

I know what he’s trying to say.
Don’t be rash, don’t rush in. Don’t be Lee-ish.
I manage to nod. “I will. I promise.”

“Lilac was right,” he continues, this time glancing at Flynn as well. “You need proof, and you need to create a whole galaxy of witnesses. You need so many eyes on Avon that LaRoux wouldn’t dare touch it. Maybe when you get back, you can search for whatever happened to that facility to the east.”

Before anyone can reply, an air traffic controller jogs up to me. “Time to go, sir, not much time left. Last shuttle out.”

I can see the line of civilians and soldiers alike boarding the shuttle. Most of the soldiers sport visible wounds, but some have the reddened, haunted eyes of those who’ve had their first unnatural dream and are afraid to go back to sleep, for fear of the Fury. There are only a handful of civilians, the lucky few who have family waiting somewhere in the galaxy to take them in. They walk quietly, heads down, as though they don’t want to draw attention to themselves.

Behind them all are half a dozen soldiers forcibly preventing a desperate throng of townspeople, all wanting to get out before they lose their chance. The launch bay officials are herding them back toward the base, for all I know to have their genetags scanned. There’s no way out of this building for Flynn—except on the ship I’m flying.

The control officer’s still issuing me warnings in a tight, quick voice. “Rebels have got surface-to-air missiles now, they got to a supply craft on its way in. Ain’t safe to fly anymore, sir. We’ve got a brief window now, but then that’s it. If you take off now, there’s a good chance you’ll be fine—but you probably won’t be able to come back.”

“For how long?” I ask him.

“Don’t know, sir. Maybe an hour, if the ground teams can recapture the anti-aircraft guns. Maybe not until the war’s over.”

My head jerks up.
If I leave now, I might never be able to come back.
“What’s happening over there?” I ask, tilting my head at the civilians they’re herding away. I can’t send Flynn off to join them until I know where they’re being taken.

“If they’re not getting on a shuttle, they’re being scanned and having their identities verified, sir.”

Flynn’s eyes meet mine. I see it hit him, his eyes widening on impact.

The tech is still talking. “We did your preflight checks for you, sir—but you’re on the roster to fly this thing because you’re Mr. Merendsen’s security detail, and you’ve got to do it
now
, commander’s orders.”

I’m being manhandled back toward the nose of the shuttle to carry out my orders, but my eyes are on Flynn’s, and for a moment there’s no sound, nothing but my heartbeat as the chasm between us widens. Time slows, the milliseconds trickling by, whispering like dust.

Then everything rushes back and Flynn darts forward. “Me too,” he blurts with a gasp. “I’m going too.”

The officer glances at him, and at the crowd fighting to board. Flynn’s on this side of the soldiers holding the others back, and the man assumes he’s already been through the security check. That he’s meant to be on the shuttle. “Okay, but you know you might not be coming back? Heck, you might get blown out of the sky if they get those missiles up and running ahead of schedule.”

“I know.” Flynn’s breathing hard, his eyes on my face. “I know.”

And then he’s gone, time speeding up as if to make up for its hiccup a few seconds before. Merendsen’s hauling him toward the passenger door, and I’m forced to turn and race for the cockpit, climbing up into the pilot’s seat. No copilot on this one; we’ve got no one to spare.

My hands are shaking. Though I’ve been flying a few times a month since basic training when I was sixteen, I’m no pilot—but routine transport missions are half automated anyway.
Except dodging surface-to-air missiles was never part of the routine.

Muscle memory takes over, and I get myself buckled down and the engines humming. The check lights all along the ceiling flash green one by one to tell me that the passengers are all strapped down, that the doors are closed, that we’re pressurized. That we’re ready to go. I pull on the comms unit headset and hear the control tower squawking at me to move, move now.

I punch the engine, feeling the whole shuttle shudder briefly as the VTOL jets lift us up off our supports. I take a long, steadying breath, then let the shuttle dart up into the sky.