Chapter 10
The Insomnia is back.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, the week started off pretty well, and I felt like I was really starting to mesh with my fleet, but then I had to go and plant myself in the middle of someone else’s fight.
Again. It’s not like I’m trying to get on the sergeant’s bad side.
It’s just … I’ve been finding it really hard to sit by and watch while she and Lament have their little sparring matches thinly veiled as professional discourse.
Even if I still don’t fully understand the reason.
So here I am, awake again in my room at some ungodly hour, wondering if maybe sleep is a myth invented by our AI overlords to make us believe we’re supposed to close our eyes every night while they secretly run around wreaking havoc in our absence.
I’m lying on my back in bed, scrolling aimlessly through my handheld when a message from Lament lights up the screen.
We need to talk.
I’m immediately upright. We need to talk? Seriously? Not even a Hey, Hartman, how’s it going? I’m already mentally tallying the possibilities (everything from Lament has a new lead on the space mist to Lament’s leg has been bitten off by a cave raptor) as I type back, That sounds ominous.
It’s nothing bad.
I have something to say.
Not over message, though.
Can I come to your room?
Give me a hint first.
Hartman.
Just a small one.
You don’t need a hint.
Just say okay.
Okay, I type, when what I really want to say is no, absolutely not, under no circumstances are you barging in here with your … your vague demands to speak in person. I don’t care if Lament says it’s nothing bad. People always say it’s nothing bad. And then it’s the worst.
I scoot out of bed and flip on the lights, wishing I owned more stuff so I’d have something to nervously tidy while I wait for him. To come here. To my room.
Shit.
I pour myself a glass of water, then pour him a glass, only to realize how deranged it looks having preemptively poured water for a guest. Not that Lament is a guest. His room is, like, three doors down from mine.
We practically live together. We do live together.
Except not, like, live-live, since that would imply something else entirely.
Gah, save me.
I dump the second glass back into the sink and am midway through trying to wrangle my bed head when the knock comes.
Lament is standing in the hallway outside my door, fully dressed in long sleeves and pants, his hair fluffed as if he just washed it, the buttons on his shirt winking like little silver coins.
I become acutely aware of my flannel pajama bottoms and oversize Space Monsters T-shirt which, regrettably, is a cartoon for toddlers.
“Didn’t realize this was a black-tie affair. ”
He gives me an exasperated look. “I haven’t had a chance to change.”
“It’s past midnight.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Do you even own pajamas?”
“Yes,” he replies stiffly. “I just thought, since I’m already barging in on you, it might not be prudent to arrive half naked.” An uncomfortable pause. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“I was getting to that.”
I step aside and he steps inside and I close the door and it’s all a mess.
Or, I’m a mess. Mostly because Lament has arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night looking like some kind of businessman demigod and saying the word naked, which has my mind running down all kinds of paths.
Also, he smells … really good. Like pine and something lighter, linen.
He’s filling my room with it, which is the moment I remember this used to be Bast’s room.
“Um,” I start elegantly, “would you like a glass of water?”
“Please.”
I return to the kitchenette and do the whole routine again, the glass and the water and the ice.
He accepts the offered cup with a graceful hand, and my gaze keeps going: short fingernails, four of them bandaged.
Stern, pink mouth. Long lashes framing his eyes, which dart to mine, then go still under my scrutiny.
I clear my throat. “You wanted to talk?”
He leans against the counter and takes a sip of water. “In person, yes. I would like to make a few things clear, but I think my messages can sometimes come out wrong.”
“Actually, I’d say they sound exactly like you.”
“How do you mean?”
I try to think of a nice way to say bossy or sarcastic, but he interprets my pause for what it is. “I suppose I’d rather not know.”
“No, no, it’s … I was just going to say … indelicate?” I wince. “Like in a good way.”
He musters a smile, setting his glass on the counter without releasing it. “I know I can be uptight.”
“You’re particular.” I shrug. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“It can be. That’s part of the reason I’m here. I’m not always good at conveying my meaning, and after what happened in the sergeant’s office, then today during our briefing … I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”
“I hear a but coming.”
“But,” he continues, “this can’t keep happening.”
“Oh?”
“You seem to be developing a habit of defending me. And that’s … well.” His ears pinken. “It’s unexpected. And … appreciated. But you shouldn’t tie yourself to a sinking ship.”
“Why do you think you’re sinking?” I ask softly.
“It’s inevitable.” He shrugs in a way that only seems to reveal the depth of his emotion.
“The sergeant doesn’t take mistakes lightly.
She can stick us with red cards, or strip our commissions, or ground our spaceflights.
The problem is, for me, none of that really matters.
I need to know what happened to Bast. I need to understand the mist—where it came from, what it is, whether it could return to hurt anyone else.
I plan to keep hunting for answers, and if that means I’m eventually kicked out of the Legion for insubordination, I’m prepared to deal with that.
But the same can’t—shouldn’t—be said for you. Not when you’re just getting started.”
I look down at my cup to buy myself a second before answering. “There’s something I don’t understand about this,” I say slowly. “Why does the Legion think an investigation into Bast’s death is insubordination? Shouldn’t they want to know what happened that day?”
He hesitates. “They should.”
“So…?”
More hesitating. Clearly, Lament still isn’t sure he can trust me with this. I said I wouldn’t push, and I mean that, but hell if it doesn’t feel like I’m balanced on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see which way the wind will blow.
“After the accident,” Lament finally says, “the Legion did look into Bast’s death.
When they couldn’t find answers—or even any leads—they filed the case under Unavoidable Accidents and wiped their hands of it.
I put in a request with Sergeant Forst to conduct a more extensive investigation, which she declined.
When I bypassed her authority and took the issue up the chain of command, they ignored me. ”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“It’s an insult to Bast’s memory,” he says bitterly.
“Four years. He gave the Legion four years of his life, and they can’t even commit the resources to figuring out why he died.
You know what they told me when I tried to reopen his case?
They said I should be grateful I’m not being blamed for the accident.
I should be happy they aren’t investigating me. ”
My mouth drops open. “That’s … really fucked-up.”
His jaw goes tight. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you don’t want the sergeant to know you’re still hunting for answers?”
“She expressly forbids it. The investigation is technically closed. If we want to continue the search, we’d need a Legion approval of intent, an assignment of funds. And obviously I don’t have either of those things.”
“Because of the sergeant.”
“Because of all of it.” He heaves the biggest sigh.
“Leads have been near impossible to uncover, and the Legion’s decision to close Bast’s case has only made things more difficult.
The day of the accident, the mist came out of nowhere and vanished into nothing.
No traceable markers, no origin or destination.
My only clues thus far have been the raptors and that sand cephalopod, which acted exactly like Bast acted when the mist overtook our spacecraft.
His irises started glowing blue and he turned around in the gunner’s seat and just… ”
Lament’s eyes clash with mine when he realizes what he’s admitting. My voice is awash with disbelief. “He attacked you?”
Lament tenses. “He wasn’t himself. It wasn’t his fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“It’s like he was possessed. He just went crazy. Started thrashing around and trying to shoot me, and then—” A thick swallow. “We crashed shortly after.”
I’m gaping. I can’t help it. I should have realized the full story the moment I saw those cave raptors, but I didn’t, because it seems impossible, horrible, like something out of a nightmare.
It’s one thing to lose your best friend in an accident, but to watch them turn rabid, to see them go mad and then try to attack you …
“Now you understand,” Lament says, “why you can’t make it your job to stand up for me.
My decision to fly to Purvuva wasn’t one bad lapse in judgment, and my relationship with the sergeant—the tension between us—isn’t something that can be fixed.
I’ll keep breaking rules until I find answers, and if I’m stripped of my Legion wings as a result, so be it.
But you … there’s no reason for you to do the same. ”
“What happens if I choose to help you anyway?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you choose that?”
Because I watched my mom walk away, I could say.
Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, and not understand why, and want answers.
How it keeps you up at night. How it hurts and hurts and never seems to stop, no matter how much you try to put it behind you, no matter how many years go by.
I want to tell Lament the truth. I want to open up to him like he’s opening up to me. But when I try to speak the words, my voice catches, and I end up simply saying, “Because that’s what I’d want someone to do for me.”
Lament is still confused. “I’m not sure you know what you’re agreeing to.”
“I get the gist.”
“In which case”—he squints an eye—“I believe this calls for a reexamination of our bonehead conversation.”
“I did recently suffer a concussion.”
Up goes that eyebrow. “You’re hardly helping your case.”
“Gunners aren’t typically known for their brains.”
“Am I supposed to argue with that?”
“I am trying to highlight how fortunate you are to have me instead of…” I wave a vague hand. “Brawny.”
“Brawny?”
“One of my old Academy mates.”
“I see,” says Lament, in a way that makes it clear he certainly does not see.
“Brawny wasn’t his real name. We only called him that because, you know. All brawn, no brain.”
Lament blinks. And then he laughs. An honest to stars, full-throated laugh that makes me flush with unexpected pleasure. I feel like I’ve been struck, caught in the surprising image of Lament when he’s amused, the way his hair falls around his face, the movement of the muscles in his neck …
This is bad.
This is very bad.
“You,” he finally breathes, “are not what I was expecting.”
I can’t look at him, but I can’t look away, either. I’m flailing, and I’m sure my face is bright red, and if I don’t get it together right now, he’s going to notice.
“Regardless,” I say in the breeziest voice I can muster, fixing my gaze on some middle distance that isn’t him, “I don’t see how you’re going to do much investigating right now.
They’ve barred us from non-sanctioned spaceflights.
Sergeant Forst says they’ve activated our spacecrafts’ DNA monitors, meaning the crafts will literally stop us from leaving without orders. ”
Lament’s smile changes, turning slightly devilish, and—oh. The laughter was one thing, but the smile is worse.
He says, “There’s something I want to show you.”