Chapter 12
We traverse the detachment in silence. Lament is slightly ahead of me, but I can see the edge of his chin, the arch of his cheekbone.
He’s agitated. I’m agitated. I want to pull my ray gun into my hand, let its solid weight ground me, but of course, it’s not at my hip.
I hook a hand around the back of my neck instead, dig my fingers into the tendons there. It doesn’t help.
I’m not sure anything would help.
There’s the question of how. How did Professor Morton know all those things about my past?
And, more specifically, about my relationship with Master Ira?
It’s one thing for Ran Doc Min to use his simulation to predict large planetary events.
Very much another to know intimate details about my history.
Has Ran Doc Min’s simulation—FPS—gotten more powerful?
Is he using it to predict not just floods and fires, but the future of individual lives?
Can he look back to see what we’ve done in the past?
And if so, why would he have any interest in my past?
“That was completely inappropriate,” Lament says as we head down the hallway toward our rooms. “Whatever Morton was trying to tell you, you just … you can’t let it get to you.”
I nod, which Lament doesn’t see, because he isn’t looking at me.
“This is what Determinists do,” he continues. “They surprise you out of nowhere and make these big, sweeping predictions without offering specifics, and then just expect you to react. To be grateful.”
Another unseen nod.
“The professor shouldn’t even be here,” Lament bursts in a rare display of emotion.
“Not just on our flight deck. I mean, at all. On the Board of Directors or as a member of the Legion. He’s a recent appointee.
When he was voted in, no one knew his ideologies—those only came out later.
Unfortunately, being a Determinist isn’t enough grounds for removal.
It should be—” At this, Lament stops and swings around like he’s going to fight someone.
Me, I guess, since I’m the closest target.
“By the stars, if the Legion would stop being such ass fucks, they’d see what a disaster it’s been having a Determinist in a position of power when we’re currently at odds with the Determinist leader, but they won’t, so we’re stuck with him. ”
“Did you just say ass fucks?”
Lament tosses me a withering look. “Don’t.”
“I can tell you don’t curse much.”
“I find profanity loses its effectiveness when overused.”
“Whereas the speaker loses their effectiveness when under-practiced. Evidently.”
Lament rolls his jaw. “Do you always have to make a joke of everything?”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
“It’s insufferable.”
I’m aware. But I have to make light of this, I have to, because if not …
What if Ran Doc Min’s prediction is true? What if Master Ira is in some kind of danger?
“Hey.” Lament plants himself in front of me. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Catastrophizing.”
I frown. “What makes you think I’m catastrophizing?”
“It’s all over your face. You’re just like Bast. He couldn’t ever hide a thing.” Lament tugs roughly at his sleeves, seemingly upset with himself. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything.” He quits playing with his sleeve and returns his gaze to mine. “Are you going to be okay?”
No, I think, because this is all too weird, and my brain feels like it’s made of gummy worms, and it’s the middle of the night, which somehow makes everything seem so much worse.
I wasn’t expecting to confront my past like this.
I thought, maybe, I’d finally started to put it behind me.
The Legion is my focus now. The Sixth is.
So what does it mean that my mind keeps sliding back into memories?
The children’s home with its old wooden floors and crown molding and painted murals.
Master Ira sitting by the fire, on the porch, in the kitchen, suffusing every room with ease and warmth.
The way all the kids adored him. The way I did.
“Hartman?”
“Hmm?”
“I asked you a question.”
Had he? “Repeat it?”
“I asked,” Lament says, “if you’re going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” I reply, and then again, to convince myself. “Yeah.”
Lament doesn’t look like he believes me, but rather than push the point, he just gives a nod. We continue down Detachment 94’s residence hallway, stopping outside the door to my room.
The pause is just this side of awkward.
“So…,” he starts at the same time as I blurt, “Gelatin shot?”
Lament blinks. “What?”
“I mean.” I wince internally. “Would you like to come in?” I open the door and move into my room, waiting to see if Lament will follow. “For, um, a gelatin shot?”
“The Detachment doesn’t stock alcohol.”
“I know.” My pulse is a little erratic as I walk into my kitchenette and pull a handful of neon beakers out of the fridge. Lament—in a groundbreaking turn of events—follows me through the door, closing it behind him.
“Vera smuggled these in on my first night,” I say. “Green apple. They’re actually not bad. Takes a bit of doing to get them down, but…” I offer the tubes.
Lament is scowling, all stern and disapproving. “The Legion doesn’t condone drinking in its residence halls.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“You’re supposed to be displaying exemplary behavior. That’s how you get your red card removed.”
“We’re supposed to be,” I correct. “You forget who clocked their red card first? And like I said, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Lament is still frowning. And … I get it.
I do. It’s just, tonight was a lot, this past week has been a lot, and my head is still full of the professor’s words, and Moon Dancer, and the sergeant, and everything, and I just …
I’m rattled. And confused. And still brand-new to the Legion and unsure of my place here and stressed about all of it.
And basically, what that boils down to is I really, really don’t want to be alone right now.
Lament heaves that sigh of his and says, “Oh, what the hell.”
“What the hell. Classic choice, decent delivery. Five out of ten.”
His mouth gets all frowny and contrite. “Did I invite an assessment of my swearing?”
“You didn’t not invite it.” I heft the beakers. “Shall we?”
Lament takes one of the beakers and attempts to stab the syringe through the thin plastic lid.
I watch in fascination as he … fails. Which is not something I thought possible.
I mean, Lament’s fingers are still bandaged from our run-in with the sand cephalopod, which is clearly messing with his grip, but he’s just so competent and self-composed that I never imagined he could struggle with anything, let alone this.
“Are these things made of titanium?” he grumbles.
“Just plastic.” I am trying my very hardest not to smile. “Like the kind they use on juice boxes for children.”
He’s gripping the syringe like he wants to strangle it. “How many tries did it take you?”
“One.”
That only makes him more determined, but at last I take pity on the poor syringe (the tip is now savagely bent) and pluck the items from his hands. “I’m staging an intervention.”
He looks more put off than the situation warrants. “I was almost there.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I think I can poke a bit of plastic through another bit of plastic.”
“I definitely believe you.”
He runs a hand down his face. “I’m embarrassed.”
“It’s all right,” I say (and why am I suddenly noticing how good he manages to look, even under the harsh kitchen lights?). “I’ve embarrassed myself in front of you plenty of times.”
Lament doesn’t seem impressed by this line of reasoning. “Yes, but when you do it, it’s all helpless and endearing. Like a baby deer. When it’s me, it’s pathetic.”
“Did you just call me endearing?”
He throws me a look. “You must have misheard.”
I focus on the syringe, inserting the crooked tip into the beaker, pulling back the plunge to draw up the alcohol, holding it up.
Lament obligingly opens his mouth, and I realize how perfectly quiet it is in here.
I can hear the shuffle of his shoes on the aropolymer floor.
I can hear myself breathing, a little fast, a little loud.
Our faces are close, and I notice a freckle beside his nose, the long sweep of his eyelashes, that shallow cut over his brow.
I release the gelatin, which splashes green onto his tongue before he pulls away, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Well?” I manage. “Not bad, right?”
He glances up at me, and something … catches. Like thread on a nail. “Not at all.”
We trade a second round of shots, then a third, and by the time we flop side by side onto my couch, my muscles have loosened, my thoughts pulling out of their breakneck pace. I’m mercifully buzzed and—maybe for the first time ever—at ease in Lament’s company.
“Vera would be so proud of us,” Lament mutters.
I laugh. “She does seem determined to make us friends.”
“She can be like that sometimes. She gets an idea in her head and it’s like—” He pretends to squeeze the air. “You can’t shake it out of her.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s the romance novels. She reads too many. Her sister sends them by the crateful. It’s excessive.”
“Is that common? Families sending stuff?”
He nods. “Skyhub has plenty to offer—you’ve seen that—but sometimes fleet members just want reminders of home.
Jester’s mom sends his favorite sour gummies—careful if he ever offers you one, they’re potent—and Vera’s sister sends novels by their favorite author, and Avi’s parents ship these little hair ties shaped like the main character from this show she loves. Everyone has their thing.”
“And you?” I ask tentatively, because I’m imagining Lament has some tragic family backstory. “Does your family send anything?”
“My mom sends condoms.”
I choke on my own spit and begin coughing convulsively.