Chapter 03 #2
I feel like I’ve missed a lot of points, actually, an entire lifetime’s worth that might explain how I’ve wound up alone with Lament, again, on the wrong side of his temper. “Okay. I was exploring.”
“You were snooping.”
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “You caught me. Snooping through reference books. It’s my secret vice.”
“I mean,” he says coldly, “through the detachment.”
“This room isn’t off-limits. I’m allowed to be here.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“So?”
“You should be in bed.”
“Well,” I say dryly, “so should you.”
To my surprise, his ears go faintly pink. The hair on my neck stands up in response, startled and more than a little thrilled.
Ridiculous. I’m an Academy-trained gunner. I’ve shot a Death Charmer into a pool of dynamite and watched the ensuing firestorm devour half a planet. I shouldn’t find Lament’s blush thrilling.
“Well?” I imagine sticking out my finger and nudging him in the ribs. Poke. “What’s your excuse?”
He fidgets, tugging at his cuffs. “I don’t need an excuse.”
“You’re wearing work clothes in the middle of the night.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“You’ve come to a room full of”—I glance at the nearest book—“spacecraft mechanism volumes. But you’re not a mechanic. You’re a pilot.” I tap my chin. “Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting.”
“The plot thickens.”
“There is no plot.”
“Unhand me!”
“I can’t—what?”
“It’s … what they say in murder mysteries?”
He huffs a sound of disbelief. “You’re unhinged.”
No, I’m sleep-deprived. After an eight-hour spaceflight to get here, three rounds of gelatin shots, and nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, I’m exhausted.
I don’t say this to Lament, though. The last time he witnessed me in a moment of vulnerability, he mocked me for it.
I’m pretty sure that makes him an asshole, which is just my luck, really, finally making it into my dream slot in the Legion only to be stuck with an absolute lemon of a partner.
And what’s worse? I can’t even call him out on it, because that would be (as Master Ira used to say) stirring the pot, and I can’t afford to stir any pots.
Can’t even think about pots or utensils used for their stirring.
Because while Lament has already secured his place in the Legion, I haven’t. And I really, really need this to work.
Lament scratches the back of his neck, then drops the hand and gives me a look that’s steady and … curious? Which I guess is a step up from the glaring? “What species are you?”
Now I’m the one frowning. “Um. Human?”
“Are you sure?”
“What? Yes.”
“You don’t exactly look human.”
I have no idea what to say to that. There are a few humanoid races similar to ours, but they all have distinct markers, like silver eyes or horns or fangs. No one has ever questioned my humanity before. “Are you messing with me?”
He looks affronted. “No.”
Mercifully, a cleaning bot chooses this moment to roll into the room.
It’s a CE-90, one of those rollers with a dozen extending arms and just enough programming to prevent it from knocking anything over.
As Lament and I watch, a nozzle appears out of the bot’s side and begins vacuuming the bookcases.
It looks like an elephant. A squat metal elephant with a tubular trunk for slurping dust.
I really must be sleep-deprived, because I choke back a snort.
Lament flashes me a look of deep concern. “Are you laughing?”
Yes. “No.”
“Why are you laughing?”
Because I’m a hundred light-years away from anyone I know. Because I thought coming here would feel like coming home, and it doesn’t. Because I’m half-convinced that by morning, Sergeant Forst will call me into her office to tell me I’ve been reassigned. “No reason.”
“You are unhinged.”
I turn my attention back to the monitor where Rudy Rivon is brandishing his microphone at a frightened-looking young man. “How do you unmute the volume?”
Lament hesitates—probably deciding if helping me will shrivel his soul or whatever—before striding to a nearby drawer and extracting a remote. I lift my hand, expecting him to toss it over, but he only says, “They’re interviewing a Determinist.”
“I can see that.” My voice is perfectly calm. I deserve an award. “I’d like to listen.”
“You’re not a follower, are you?”
Determinists are a faction of people who believe every event leads to every next event, meaning the future can be charted down to what kind of eggs you’ll have for breakfast in thirty years.
The group has been around for decades, recruiting members and spouting their predictions, but it wasn’t until about three years ago that a man named Ran Doc Min created a computer simulation that does exactly that—predicts the future.
In the time since, he’s become the leader of the Determinist movement and spends most of his time warning people about all sorts of catastrophic events: worldwide floods, meteors, collapsing stars.
At first, everyone wrote him off as a madman, but then his predictions started to come true.
Recently he’s started hinting at something bigger.
Something that will affect not just one planet, but the entire galaxy. It’s been all over the news.
“Not really,” I reply. “I mean, I get the concept of Determinism. And it seems like there might not actually be any randomness in the universe, so it makes sense that our lives could be predetermined. But I’m not, you know, devoted to the movement. Not like Doc Min and his followers.”
Lament crosses the room in six easy strides. His steps are so graceful they can’t not be deliberate. “His predictions are certainly making headlines.”
I peer at him. “Are you a follower?”
“Quite the opposite.” He spins the remote deftly over his palm.
“The man is a wild card. He’s been able to predict the future using technology we’ve never seen and don’t understand.
So far, Ran Doc Min has mostly used his simulation to forecast planetary catastrophes, and in doing so, he’s saved lives.
People think he’s a hero. In many ways, they’re right.
But it’s dangerous for one person to have that much power, especially since we don’t know how his simulation works or what his ultimate motive is.
What if this is all just a prelude to some other, darker venture? ”
“He could outmaneuver any resistance.” I prop an elbow on the couch’s arm. Behind us, the cleaning bot starts unscrewing ventilation grates from the wall to dust the airways inside. “Using his predictive technology, Doc Min could always stay a step ahead.”
“Exactly. The Legion has tried questioning him about both the ethics and the mechanics of his simulation, but Doc Min remains uncooperative. He thinks we’re trying to interfere with his predictions.
To stop them, maybe. And of course, that makes us look bad, since his forecasts really do save lives. It’s a mess.”
It’s not lost on me that Lament and I are managing to carry on an actual conversation without any sarcasm or hostility.
His face has changed again, softened, the lines smoothing around his mouth and eyes.
I offer an olive branch of a smile. “Is that the Sixth’s main mission right now?
Uncovering the method behind Doc Min’s simulation? ”
And just like that, he closes up again. “Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs, but the answer is written across his shoulders, down his folded arms. It’s classified. I’m not his gunner, not—in his mind—really even a member of the Sixth.
That’s when a new thought occurs to me. “Is this about my Academy status?”
His gaze darts up. “Your what?”
“You know.” I wave my hand, hating him for making me say it.
Surely he already knows. Everyone knows.
“Because I was accepted into the Academy without a sponsor. I took the entry test instead. I know they say no one’s supposed to be able to pass the entry test, that it’s just the Academy’s way of acting like they’re giving opportunities to underprivileged students, but…
” My anger ebbs at the bewilderment on Lament’s face.
He didn’t know. Is it possible he didn’t know?
“But, um, I did pass. Which led to all the rumors…”
“What rumors?”
That I was sleeping with the Academy’s president, mainly. But if Lament wasn’t aware of my Academy status, he surely hasn’t heard that gossip.
“You know what,” I say. “It’s not important.”
I fully expect Lament to push the subject, so I’m surprised when he replies with, “If you say so.”
Which leaves us at this uncomfortable juncture where we’re both still mildly irritated but have no way to move the conversation forward without either apologizing or resuming our earlier arguing.
I choose a third option.
“Well.” I stand from the couch a bit too quickly; my shin knocks the coffee table hard enough to make Lament wince.
“As pleasant as this has been…” I shuffle sideways, cringing a little as I try to extract myself from the narrow space between the couch and table.
“It is late. Or early, I guess. I’m heading back to bed. ”
It’s surely my sleep-addled brain, but Lament looks almost disappointed.
I limp toward the door, taking the roundabout way to avoid passing too close to him. I’m almost out of the room when the cleaning bot pulls another grate from the wall.
This time, something crawls out of it.
The bot doesn’t react (it’s a bot), but I jerk in surprise as the creature—black, serpentine, with a body like a lizard and a head that reaches my knees—emerges from the vent, bares a row of needlelike teeth, and lunges for me.
I scramble backward, my hand going to my belt where my ray gun … isn’t. My brain stutters, my fingers pawing uselessly at my hip until I realize my gun is in its holster, which is lying where I left it on the couch.
I forgot my weapon.
I never forget my weapon.
I think—fuck—as the creature flies toward me, all sinewy limbs and flashing talons.
I grab the bot and offer a worthless apology (bots can’t feel and I’m pretty sure they’re not sentient) before raising it over my head and hurling it at the monster.
It’s a direct hit, but my attempt at self-defense only serves to enrage the creature.
It crashes to the floor, hissing, claws skittering.
Its scales are so polished they’re reflective.
Its eyes are bluish, strangely glowy. There’s foam around its mouth, gathering at the corners, and dear Mother of Stars, those fangs—
A shot fires. There’s a blaze of green light, the familiar burn-and-metal smell of a ray beam. The lizard’s body blasts into pieces, splashing red across white walls.
Holy shit.
I’m clutching the doorframe, gaping at what’s left of the reptile while my heart tries to batter its way out of my rib cage.
Lament has my ray gun in hand. He must have grabbed it off the couch, except I don’t know how, because he’s standing exactly where he was before, stiff, not a hair out of place.
I have the oddest thought that maybe he really has become a statue, like he’s turned permanently to stone. Then he lifts his gaze to mine.
His eyes aren’t full of shock, as I expected, but fury.