Chapter 14
It’s an eight-hour flight from Skyhub to Venthros on any commercial cruiser, cut down to thirty minutes in Vera’s hyperspeed split-wing.
I’d say the ride is a thrill, except right now I feel like I’ve swallowed my teeth and they’re jangling around in my gut.
I’m worried I might vomit, or faint, or at the very least sweat through my whites.
I’ve hardly had time to wrap my head around where we’re going before suddenly we’re there, descending toward a landing area in Longji’s neighboring city, Soto.
I peer out the window and take it all in: those jipper shrubs, the forests and clouds.
I know what that grass is like, the way it’ll smell.
I can explain how it feels to stand under that sky.
I’ll say it now—it feels like flying. It’s been three years since I’ve stepped foot on this planet, but it’s like no time has passed at all.
Everything is exactly as I remember, the farmlands, the rice fields, the flocks of black geese.
And of course, looming in the distance, striking and omnipresent as ever: Mount Kilmon.
I pull away from the window just in time to see Vera shooting me an eager look.
She probably assumes I’m excited about my first real mission (we’re not counting that other one), but Vera doesn’t know I’m from here.
None of the Sixers do, except Lament. I should have told them, said something when Vera showed me today’s orders, but I didn’t, so how do I bring it up now?
Not that I want them to know. Not that I want to talk about it at all.
Vera lands our split-wing neatly in the grassy field just south of Soto.
Lament’s skimmer (which is slightly larger than the last one, single engine, navy body) touches down beside us, followed closely by Caspen and the rest of the Sixth in her cargo craft named The Bargainer.
Though most of the galaxy’s larger metropolises have landing pads designed specifically for spacecraft, Soto isn’t one of them.
The city is a mix of urban and rural, half a million people.
Big enough, surely, to warrant its own spaceport, but this is a Lower Planet—the galaxy’s way of saying poorer—and Soto sees so little outside travel that they probably couldn’t justify the expense.
Instead, we get a field with a single raised platform made of weathered planks that serves no purpose, as far as I can tell, except as a landmark.
I turn my eyes west. The village of Longji—and within it, Master Ira’s School for Children—is just over those hills. If I started walking now, I could be there by nightfall.
“Heads up,” Vera warns as she powers down the split-wing. “Reporters incoming.”
I look out the opposite windows to see a crowd of people armed with microphones and cameras coming our way. There’s a lot of them—too many to count at a glance—and they look … actually, they look pretty intense. “Damn.”
“Is it just me, or are there more than usual?” Vera asks Jester.
Definitely more, he agrees.
“I thought our missions were classified,” I say. “How did they know we’d be here?”
“They didn’t. But this is the only landing pad in the region, and given the Determinist activity, they probably figured the Legion would send a fleet. Speaking of, someone should probably…” Vera trails off.
I follow the line of her gaze. My heart drops. “Lament.”
He’s already exited his spacecraft and is walking toward the wooden platform, reading something on his handheld. He’s distracted. He doesn’t see the approaching mob.
Vera looks a little panicked. “Lament has a thing about—”
“Reporters,” I finish, yanking off my harness and pushing open the door. “I know.”
I drop to the patchy earth and hurry forward.
My hand itches to grab my gun, but I remember my training this time, so I merely clench my fist and concentrate on my footing, avoiding the mole holes and stray branches.
Lament is still a good twenty yards ahead of me.
His hair catches the light of the midday sun, his nose buried in whatever he’s reading. “Lament.”
He looks up at my voice, then notices the reporters.
His steps falter. His eyes go wide. I break into a jog, but I’m not quick enough.
Spurred by a hidden burst of wind, or magic, or a traitorous nudge from the cosmos, the newspeople put on a collective surge of speed and descend around Lament in a tide of cameras and recorders and flashing lights.
“Mr. Bringer, is it true you’ve come to stop a riot?”
“Any words for Ran Doc Min?”
“How’s it been flying with a new partner?”
Lament lifts a hand to ward off the onslaught. “No comment.”
“Can you confirm the rumors about a red card on your file?”
“What would Bast say about that if he was alive?”
“Why’d your spacecraft go down that day, Lament?”
“No—” Lament’s eyes are wild, darting. “No comment.”
“Do you know why the Determinists are gathering here in Soto?”
“Has the Legion come to defend the Randomists?”
“I don’t…” Lament is trying to escape, but the reporters have him surrounded. “I’m not…”
I finally manage to shove my way through, pulling Lament into my side to shield him from the cameras and using my not insubstantial height to fight our way out. “Move,” I snarl at the mob, shoving someone with my shoulder. “We’re not taking questions.”
There’s an indignant cry, probably from the person I shoved, but the reporters give us space.
I guide Lament through an opening in the bodies and he just …
lets me. He’s tucked under my arm, kind of leaning into my chest to hide his face.
I catch Vera’s eye as she hurries up behind us.
She gives me a nod, then raises her hand to draw the reporters’ attention while Lament and I make our getaway.
Vera’s split-wing is closest, so that’s where we go.
I stick Lament in the pilot’s seat, then swing around to the passenger side and shut us both in.
It’s only when the noise cuts away that I realize how loudly the reporters were shouting, talking over each other to get in their questions.
My anger is still there—at the press, their inhumanity—but I shove it down and look at Lament.
He’s sitting with his hands in his lap, staring at nothing. He looks shaken. Upset.
And I hate it. I hate everything about this, seeing Lament’s confidence stripped away to reveal this …
this person. Just this lost, grieving person who used to have someone to lean on in situations like this and doesn’t anymore.
I think about what Lament said, how he doesn’t believe fleet members should be treated like celebrities.
The way it distorts our purpose. And while I’m sure there’s some truth to that, it’s also becoming clear to me that Lament has personal reasons for staying away from the press.
Which, no shit. That was a madhouse back there.
The silence expands. I’m at a bit of a loss for what happens next. Lament is obviously rattled, and I want to do something about it, but I don’t know what he needs.
So, says the memory of Master Ira’s voice, ask him.
“Hey.” I wait until he looks at me. “What can I do?”
Lament blinks. “What?”
“What do you need?”
He curls into himself, tugging first at his collar, then at his sleeves. His hands are shaking. “Nothing. I don’t—I don’t need anything.”
“You sure?” I dip my head, try to hold eye contact. “Because I can break their kneecaps. Just say the word.”
That earns me a smile, which quickly falls away.
“I didn’t…” He looks so small. “I should have realized they’d be waiting.
Vera usually goes first. Distracts them.
Or Bast … Bast would…” His expression crumples.
He drops his head into his hands, and when he lets out a single, muffled sob, I swear my heart cracks right down the middle.
Before I can let myself think about it, I reach out and grip the back of his neck, a motion of comfort, support.
A week ago, I’d never have been bold enough to touch him like this.
But I’m struggling with this feeling inside me, the one that knows what it’s like to feel helpless and worthless and just so fucking sad.
How you bury everything, shove it deep down, but then one stupid incident brings it all bubbling back up.
I don’t know exactly what Lament needs right now, but I think maybe he can use this, because there’ve been times when I could have used it, too.
After a time (a minute? an hour?), Lament lifts his head. He doesn’t say anything as I pull my hand away. His hair has sort of fluffed up, and he pushes it back into place, not meeting my eye. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“It isn’t like me to break down for no reason.”
“Seems to me like you have a pretty good reason.”
He wipes the pads of his thumbs under his eyes, examines the wetness. “I fly fighter crafts for the Legion. I should be able to handle a few reporters.”
“I don’t think there are rules about what you should and shouldn’t be able to handle.”
He sighs. “I have rules.”
“So,” I say, “change them.”
His eyes find mine. And … I don’t know. He still looks so brittle, and more unsure of himself than I’ve ever seen, but there’s something else there now, too. Vulnerability, maybe. But, like, the kind of vulnerability that reveals his strength.
“I think some of those journalists still managed to take your picture,” I say.
He looks crestfallen. “Yes.”
“I’ll handle it.”
The other Sixers are still fielding the reporters.
They’re standing in a tight triangle formation, Toph and Caspen towering at the back, Illiviamona and Jester on the ends, the rest of the team arranged in descending height order, with little Avi at the tip.
She’s pointing at one newsman in particular, her ponytail bouncing as she growls, “—heard you were seen leaving the Commissioner’s house at the crack of dawn yesterday. Care to comment on those rumors?”
As I approach the group, I spot NewsNet correspondent Rudy Rivon. He’s dressed in a navy suit, an earpiece in one ear, his hair gelled into place. He catches my eye and breaks away from the others, looking genuinely pleased to see me.
“Keller. I was hoping you’d be here.” His smile is bright white. “It’s been ages. I heard about your acceptance into the Sixth. Stars, I remember interviewing you as a new cadet at the Academy. You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?”
“You could say that.” I try to keep my voice amiable, though my earlier anger is rising again, hot and bright inside me. “I wasn’t exactly expecting this, though.” I motion around at the frenzy. “Did you all coordinate that ambush?”
“Ah.” He rubs his chin. “Sorry about that. We didn’t mean to startle your partner. This is a big story, though. There are a lot of Determinists gathering in one place, and—hate to say it, Keller—but anytime the Sixth gets involved, the story just gets bigger. You know how it is.”
I do not, in fact, know how it is.
“It’s business,” he continues with a shrug. “You’re a gunner now. The Sixth fights for the galaxy. Surely you can handle a few overzealous reporters?”
“That’s not the point.”
He finally catches my anger and holds up his hands. “You’re right. I shouldn’t make excuses. You get into this business and you forget…” He makes a face that seems genuinely regretful. “We could do better.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I start, “because I’m going to need you to delete all the pictures you took of my partner.”
I’ll give Rivon credit, he doesn’t flinch. “Delete them?”
“Lament doesn’t consent to photographs.”
“Well.” He gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Technically, we don’t require his consent.”
“It’ll mess with our mission,” I press, which is at least half true. “It’s important we keep his face out of the media. You must have some protocol for that, right?”
“Of a sort.” He sets loose hands to his hips. “But yes, okay. For you, Keller. If that’s what you need.”
“Also,” I continue coolly, “I need you to get all your reporter friends to delete their photos, too.”
Now he does flinch. “These people aren’t my friends. We work for competing networks.”
“I’m asking as a favor.”
“You’re requesting something I can’t give.”
“I think you can.” Behind us, Avi is still ranting at the reporters.
The crowd has drawn back. Several of the cameramen look like prisoners contemplating escape.
“I’m not the only one who’s come a long way in my career.
You’re one of NewsNet’s top correspondents now.
You’re telling me you don’t have any influence? ”
“That’s … not what I’m saying.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“How about,” Rivon says, in the careful tone of someone striking a deal, “I get the others to wipe the photos if you grant me an exclusive interview.”
I try not to stiffen. “An interview about what?”
“The usual. Your new position, the Legion, how it’s going with the Sixth.”
“I don’t think people would be interested—”
“I think people would be very interested,” Rivon interrupts. “It’s unusual for a cadet to land a spot in the Legion straight out of the Academy, let alone a position in its most famous fleet. People want to know how you managed it, Keller. They want to hear your story.”
I think about what Lament said about the media turning us into celebrities. How it distorts our purpose. Then again, if an interview is what it’ll take to wipe Lament’s photos, it’s an easy choice to make. “Fine.”
“Excellent.” Rivon claps his hands. “I have your information. I’ll be in touch to set up a time.
” He starts to turn away, then pauses. “How has Mr. Bringer been, by the way? Off the record. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you came to me looking for information about your new flight partner. Is he what you expected?”
I glance at Vera’s spacecraft behind me. The sun reflects off the rounded nose, the craft’s four wings split like a dragonfly. If I squint, I can just make out Lament’s silhouette inside the cockpit. “No,” I say, echoing Lament’s words from my first day. “Nothing at all like I expected.”