Chapter 13
Morning announces itself demurely, the coffeepot ticking on, the overhead lights slowly brightening to simulate daylight.
I drag myself through a shower and head to the kitchen, passing through the automatic doors that open and announce “A wombat’s teeth never stop growing!
” All the Sixers (minus Lament) are already here.
Jester is pulling plates from the cabinets, Caspen is wiping down the table, and Vera is at the stove juggling pans on all six burners, preparing what appears to be an enormous breakfast spread: scrambled eggs, hash browns, roasted potatoes, pancakes, sausages, broccoli.
“Smells amazing,” I say, grabbing a seat at the table next to Toph. “But, broccoli?”
“It’s for Lament,” Vera says. Because of course it is.
“He’s constantly harping on us to eat more veggies,” adds one of the Youvu Hums.
“That’s because your insides are barren wastelands,” Lament cuts in, striding into the kitchen.
He’s buttoned into his whites, his hair tucked behind his ears, face clean-shaven.
The sight of him looking all put together—looking like anything, really—does something funny to my stomach.
Lament catches my gaze and his lip lifts at the corner and …
Yeah. I just … yeah.
“Hey.” Vera points at Lament with her spatula. “What’s wrong with your face?”
His hand shoots up. “What?”
“That thing you’re doing with your mouth. Is that … is that a smile?”
He scowls. “Very funny.”
“Also,” says one of the Youvu Hums, “since when do you join us for breakfast?”
“That’s unfair.” Lament sounds wounded. “I come to breakfast.”
“No, no, Hum’s got a point,” Toph agrees.
“If I don’t ever join you for breakfast, why are you making me broccoli?”
“Because we care about you, doofus,” Vera replies, passing out plates.
“And because we know you get grouchy when you aren’t smothered in greens,” Avi adds.
It gets a bit hectic for a while as the group jostles around, everyone reaching over everyone else to load up their dishes.
No one expressly says so, but we all end up sitting beside our partners—Toph and Avi, the Youvu Hums, Caspen and Illiviamona, Vera and Jester.
Lament slides into the chair beside mine and shoots my plate a judgmental glance.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“It’s just,” he says helplessly, “nothing but pancakes.”
“And syrup,” I correct.
“Liquid sugar.”
“I have a sweet tooth.”
“I’ve noticed.” He’s kind of fluttering his hands around in distress. “At least have some potatoes.”
“I don’t want potatoes.”
“You can dip them in ketchup.”
“I will lather them in ketchup, and you will keep your broccoli to yourself.” Our eyes meet over the word lather, and stars help me, I blush.
I watch Lament patiently push some of the potatoes from his plate onto mine.
It’s … thoughtful. And unexpected. And I must not be the only one who thinks so, because I catch Vera kind of gaping, and Jester’s brows are lifting behind his visor, and I feel unbearably self-conscious but also kind of warm inside?
“So,” says Toph, brushing a few stray crumbs from his beard, “did everyone see today’s orders? They’ve got us on a new investigation.”
“No business talk at the table,” Vera says.
Toph looks confused. “What’s there to talk about besides business?”
“I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“That we don’t have lives?” He lets out a gruff laugh. “Are we in denial, Vera?”
“I have a life,” she huffs.
Rereading The Galaxy’s Daughter for the hundredth time doesn’t count, Jester says.
“At least I don’t stay up all night playing Frog Smasher like someone I could mention.”
Frog Smasher is an elegant game of strategy and coordination.
“The main objective is to smash frogs.”
Like I said.
This devolves into an argument regarding the finer points of action gameplay.
While the other Sixers are bickering, I notice Lament has already eaten everything on his plate.
It’s not like he underserved himself, but he only had the healthy stuff, potatoes and broccoli and some baked tofu.
Without really thinking, I cut off the warmest, fluffiest pancake bite I can find, the one that’s perfectly smeared with butter and just the right amount of syrup, and slide it onto his plate.
“What’s this for?” he asks in not quite a whisper.
“Eating,” I not-quite-whisper back.
I make a point not to watch him, but I know he’s frowning at the pancake like he’s trying to work out what to do with it. After a moment, he picks up his fork and sets the bite into his mouth.
I think I hear him sigh.
I feel that noise somewhere deep under my rib cage.
“Um, so, like, what’s going on with you two?” Avi asks. I feel Lament freeze at my side. Heat crawls up my neck.
“What do you mean?” I ask in a voice that is definitely not a squeak.
“You’re feeding Lament pancakes.” She delivers this proclamation with unnecessary force. “And he’s eating them.”
“Well.” Vera claps her hands brightly. “While Avi and I have a little chat regarding the finer points of discretion, why don’t the rest of you get this place sorted out?”
Everyone starts moving around again, piling dishes and wrapping up leftovers. Lament and I avoid eye contact. Which actually sucks. It’s not until we’ve filed into the elevators and stepped out onto the flight deck that he speaks to me again.
“I’ve already talked to Vera,” he tells my shirt collar. “She’ll take the Sky Runner today. You can ride with her.”
“Wait, what?” My voice comes out louder than I intend. “Why am I not flying with you?”
“I fly alone. As we’ve established.”
“Is this about the pancake?”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “The pancake?”
Shit. Was I making that a thing in my head? I try to backtrack. “I just mean … I thought we’d moved past this.”
He’s shutting down. I can see it, the way he wipes his face clean of emotion, retreats into himself. “There’s nothing to move past.”
I make a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to be your gunner if you won’t fly with me?”
He just shrugs.
I hate that shrug.
Before I can argue any further, Lament strides off, leaving me, yet again, to watch him walk away.
When I climb into the back of Vera’s split-wing and slam the door hard enough to make the glass shake, I feel like a brute. I’m wrangling the tangle of my harness when Vera and Jester slip into the front seats, throwing me pitying looks. “It’s not just you,” Vera says. “He won’t fly with anyone.”
“So he’s a universal prick. Good to know.”
“Not since the accident,” she continues meaningfully. “Since Bast.”
“Right.” I’m still fighting the stupid harness. “Because no one else is worthy—”
“He’s scared, Keller.”
That makes me stop. “What?”
“The last time he flew with a partner, his best friend died. He watched it happen. He’s afraid it’ll happen again.”
All the anger whooshes out of me. “Oh.” A beat. “Oh.”
Jester turns around in the front passenger seat so I can read his visor. Lament has always been pretty disciplined, but it’s gotten worse since the accident.
I think about how Lament is always fully dressed, even when working on Moon Dancer in the middle of the night. I think about boxes set in neat rows, tools aligned in order of size. The food he chooses to eat. Even the way he speaks.
“He’s a control freak,” I say. “I mean, that came out wrong. I just—he can’t let stuff go, can he?” Vera and Jester shake their heads. “Has he gotten help? You know, like, talked to anyone?”
“The Legion assigned him a therapist. He was seeing her for a while, but he hasn’t really been able to discuss the details of the accident.
He can talk about the mist and the crash—general facts that might help the investigation—but explaining what happened in the cockpit or how he’s coping with it …
it’s still too hard. One day the therapist pushed him to open up.
He resisted, she pushed harder, and he just lost it.
We could hear him shouting from three floors away.
That’s how he earned his red card, did you know? For verbal abuse of a Legion employee.”
My jaw hangs open. “That’s how?” There’s a feeling inside me, dark and heavy, anger mixed with disbelief. “But he was grieving.”
She musters a tight smile. “I know.”
“And—okay, obviously yelling at your therapist is not ideal—but she’s supposed to know how to handle that. To de-escalate the situation. That’s literally her job.”
“I know.”
“We have to do something.”
“Like what?”
Good question. The Board of Directors—that appointed group of non-Legion civilians—is in charge of handling disciplinary hearings and balancing the Legion’s power.
Their effectiveness hinges on them remaining separate from the Legion and uninfluenced by its members.
I can’t see them overturning Lament’s red card just because we demand it.
Actually, I can see it making things worse.
“We’ve been here for him,” Vera says. “The Sixers, I mean. And Lament’s doing better than he was before. But his grief isn’t something to be solved overnight.”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling like an absolute moron for ever making this about me. About pancakes. I look at my lap. “Sorry for snapping.”
Happens to the best of us, Jester replies, with the ease of someone who’s glad to move on. He pulls a ray gun out of his satchel. This is for you, by the way. Sergeant Forst’s orders.
It’s not my gun. This one’s new, with a long barrel and a fancy telescopic sighting lens that I immediately remove because it looks stupid and I don’t need it.
Sergeant Forst did mention I’d be getting my ray gun back for missions, though I guess she didn’t mean my ray gun.
“Any idea what happened to the gun I came with? The 20–88 Blaster?”
Jester shakes his head. The sergeant didn’t say.
I strap the gun to my waist and try not to let my mood drop any further. Which ends up being a wasted effort, because Vera pulls up her handheld and asks, “Did you see today’s orders yet?”
“Not yet.” Details regarding today’s mission arrived during breakfast, but I haven’t had a chance to read them.
Determinists are gathering on one of the Lower Planets, Jester explains. We don’t know exactly why, but it’s drawing Randomists out, too. The Legion worries it’ll turn into a riot.
“Or a war,” Vera adds darkly.
“Randomists?” I ask.
“People who believe there is randomness in the world, so the future can’t be predetermined, and therefore Ran Doc Min’s simulation must be a hoax.
It’s the Randomists who speak most vocally against Doc Min.
Apparently they’ve been demanding he show us FPS or else forfeit his efforts.
Whenever a new prediction emerges, the Randomists and Determinists both tend to get involved.
We’re teaming up with another Starfield Fleet—the Fifty-Seventh—and going to investigate. ”
We’ll use this as an opportunity to hunt for more information on Ran Doc Min and his motives, Jester adds, and we’ll also make sure the crowd doesn’t turn violent.
“Which planet?” I ask.
“It’s not far from here. One of the ring planets. Famous for a giant volcano, from what I understand.”
I go still. The odds … but no. There are lots of planets with giant volcanoes. Lots and lots of them.
Vera squints at her handheld, scrolling through a stream of messages to get to our orders. “Here.” She shows me the image.
It’s like all the air has been sucked from the cockpit. On the screen is an image of a brilliant green planet. I see the glittering oceans, the ragged shape of the continents, and there toward the northern hemisphere: a great black shadow.
That shadow is Mount Kilmon, and the planet is Venthros.
I’m going home.