Chapter 20
I’m woken by the feeling of a hand on my knee and jerk abruptly upright. “Nguh?”
“Hartman. Wake up.”
Lament’s face hovers in my vision. He’s still beside me on the love seat, only now the lights are back on, the documentary credits rolling. Behind him, the rest of the Sixers are standing, stretching. I rub my eyes and check my face for drool. “I fell asleep?”
“Almost immediately.” His gaze travels over me. “You snored the whole time.”
I draw an affronted breath. “I did not.”
“You did. It was absurd. I wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear you back on Skyhub.”
“That’s not true,” Vera interjects with a yawn. “You slept quite peacefully. Especially”—she bats her eyes—“after Lament tucked you in.”
It’s only now that I notice I am in fact newly in possession of a fuzzy woven quilt, which has been arranged around my sides and folded snugly at the corners. I grin at Lament, who is shooting Vera a look of magnificent scorn. “I thought you didn’t even like me,” I say.
He huffs. “I don’t.”
“Who’s the liar now?”
“You were shivering,” Lament returns in churlish tones, pulling himself smoothly off the couch. “It was distracting. And pitiful. I was taking mercy on you.”
“Do you often take mercy on people you dislike?”
“I’m not answering that.”
He starts to move away, but I catch his wrist. Which is maybe not the best idea, given the last two times I’ve done this (oh hell, am I counting?) it’s earned me Lament’s coldest, most bloodcurdling glare.
I wait for that now (the flash of his eyes, the hard exhale as he closes down and jerks away), but the scorn never comes.
Lament’s skin is smooth under my fingers.
I can feel his bones, the thrum of a pulse.
And I’m … not prepared for it. The intimacy of the contact, here on this small shoreline of skin he allows to show.
The rest of him: ocean depths hidden from view.
I release his wrist like I’ve been burned. “Sorry.”
He rubs the joint. “For what?”
Since I can’t say touching you or worse, feeling things about it, I say, “Falling asleep.”
Little frown lines pop between his brows. “Why are you sorry for—?”
“Are you out of control?” I blurt.
He’s still confused. “Hartman, I know you have a proclivity for harebrained revelations, but you’ve lost me.”
“Only you would say proclivity for harebrained revelations.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“The pain meds. You were worried they’d make you fuzzy. I wanted to be there in case you needed me, but then I fell asleep before I could even make sure you were okay, so now I want to know how you’re feeling.”
“Oh.” He blinks, like he wasn’t prepared for so many words to come out of my mouth all at once. Which, fair, because neither was I. “The medicine isn’t as potent as I feared,” he says. “So, yes. I’m okay.”
“Good.” I nod vigorously. “That’s good.”
He starts to move away again. Glances back. “You coming?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Um. Coming where?”
“To bed?”
My face goes bright red. “What?”
“Our cots are on the upper level. That’s where we sleep when we’re on The Bargainer.” Another too-searching look. “What did you think I meant?”
“That, yes. Obviously.”
We follow the other Sixers down a narrow corridor and up a staircase into another, narrower corridor.
The walls are constructed in brown metal paneling, the bolts and wires exposed.
No windows. Yellow overhead lighting. There’s a hydraulic door that opens into a single shared bathroom with a sink and a shower, and beyond that, five more doors that lead to the bedrooms. Lament stops at the one farthest down the hall, which creaks open to reveal a closet-size interior featuring a chair, a tiny desk, and two cots built into the wall.
“Oh,” I say. And then again, because apparently the first time wasn’t enough, “Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“No—uh. We’re sharing?”
“A room, yes. Partners with partners.” He waves an unaffected hand. “Don’t worry. The beds are separate.”
Right, yes, technically the cots are not touching, but they’re built into a single cubby with what I’m hazarding is a mere inch between them.
I tell myself not to make it something it isn’t. “Right. Good. Great.”
The room, like those back at the detachment, is stocked with everything we need: pajamas, slippers, toothbrushes, and toothpaste.
I take my turn in the bathroom first, showering away two days of grime (the hot water feels delicious) before returning to change into my nightclothes.
Though I’m keeping my eyes straight ahead, I’m painfully aware of Lament preparing for his shower beside me: the flash of pale skin as he peels off his jacket, the shuffle of bare feet meeting the bare floor.
He’s moving slower than usual because of his injury, dragging out the moment.
He makes it as far as unbuckling his belt, then gathers his toiletries and heads to the bathroom.
I use the opportunity to shuck off the rest of my clothes, race into my pajamas (a matching set, Legion-issued and therefore plain white), and dive under the covers.
When Lament returns (smelling like pine trees and fresh linen), he flips off the light and slides into the cot next to mine.
Which feels very much like he’s sliding into bed with me.
I tell myself that’s not what’s happening, but the small garden gnome that moonlights as my brain refuses to believe it.
We lie there in our not-shared bed. I try not to fidget, but my ears are hot. And my nose itches. And I’m uncertain whether spontaneous combustion is a real thing, but if it is, we’re about to enjoy a firsthand demonstration.
Lament sighs in the dark. “I can practically hear your thoughts going.”
“Sorry.” I flip toward him, realize how close that puts our faces, and flip away again.
“Lots on my mind. Obviously. I mean, there’s probably a lot on your mind, too.
More than a lot. You nearly died yesterday.
And then there’s everything we just learned about Mount Kilmon and the voroxide and what that means for—sorry. I’ll stop talking.”
“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I just did.”
“What’s really bothering you.”
The memory of my mom in a crowd of Determinists sparks in my vision. “I don’t know.”
“Hartman.” I can hear his sheets shuffle. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to, because all I’ve done is look at him. “I’m good.”
“What was it you were telling me earlier?” His voice is different than I’ve ever heard it. Earnest and honest, a little bit tender. “You can tell me what’s wrong. You’re safe here.”
He touches my shoulder, and that’s all it takes, really. Just the barest hint of pressure and I’m giving like butter, twisting to face him. The room is dark, but a square of soft yellow hallway light slips under the door, illuminating the space just enough for us to see.
Lament says, “I know you’re worried.”
He’s right. It feels like everything is stuck on spin cycle in my head: Ran Doc Min’s predictions, the poisonous volcano, Professor Morton’s warning.
Mount Kilmon is going to blow, and Master Ira is going to die, and my home planet will be destroyed, or will be taken over by a man with a goatee in a cape, and I shouldn’t care, I should not care, but every time I think about it, I feel like someone’s shoving a metal rod down my windpipe.
Lament works the inside of his cheek with his teeth. “Does the Master still live here?”
“In Longji, yeah.”
“That’s not far from here.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” I pull the sheets around my head so only my face shows, like a turtle in its shell. “You think I should go to him. Confront him.”
“Not necessarily. I’m not sure he deserves the effort, seeing as he’s ignored your past attempts.”
“But?”
“But … if you wanted to be the bigger person, then yes, I believe reaching out would be the right thing.”
I sink farther into my turtle shell. “This feels like a trap.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
“So either I do nothing and give him what he deserves, or go to him and be the bigger person?”
Lament gives a little cough. “You don’t have to go to him. You could send a message. Let him know you’re on Venthros and you’d like to meet. We’ll probably be here another night or two before Illiviamona clears me to fly. That gives you plenty of time to set something up.”
The thought of contacting Master Ira fills me with dread, but the thought of not contacting him—of possibly missing my final chance—is just as bad. Which … sucks, pretty much. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“You’re not damned.”
“Good point. Turtles can’t go to hell.”
“What?”
“I have the Master’s number memorized.” I release the covers and flip onto my back. My lifestone has started to glow beneath my nightshirt, casting us in a dim halo of green. I catch Lament looking at the stone and say, “Ignore it.”
“Do lifestones usually glow so much?”
“Ha. No.”
“So then why—?”
“Let’s tackle one mystery at a time, hmm?” I’m hoping it’s still dark enough to conceal my blush. I pull out my handheld. “Am I doing this?”
Lament—wincing a little at his bandaged shoulder but apparently choosing to ignore it—props up onto his elbow. “I can leave if you want. Give you some privacy.”
“Actually, I want—I mean, if you don’t mind … I would…” Ugh, words. Why are words so hard? I inhale a deep breath, screw my eyes shut and squeak, “Stay?”
For a moment, that word, stay, hangs between us. My jaw hurts. My stomach is a rock, but made of lava. I feel like I’ve handed Lament a blade and am sitting here with my throat exposed, waiting for the final thrust.
“Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”
“Yeah?”
Lament nods. “Of course.”
My lifestone glows brighter.
I move into a sitting position (the cubby is just tall enough to fit me) and dial Master Ira’s number before I can change my mind.
It rings and rings until eventually a robotic voice comes on the line telling me to leave a message.
I nearly hang up, but Lament is looking all concerned and determined, and when I hear the little beep, I find myself speaking.
“Hi—hi, Master Ira. Um, I just—” I clear my throat.
“It’s been a while since I’ve left you one of these.
And—um—well, I know you probably won’t listen to this.
Um, that’s okay.” I feel one of my uncomfortable laughs bubbling up.
I shove it down. “You probably didn’t see, but I signed with the Sixth.
I know that’s not—it’s not exactly what you wanted for me, but I’m finding my place here.
Or, I mean, I’m trying to find my place.
But, yeah, anyway, we’re on Venthros. We came because of yesterday’s riot in Soto—I’m sure you did hear about that—except now it’s all snowballing into something bigger.
I’d rather not talk about it over a voice message.
Actually, I’d like to meet in person. If you get this.
If you’d … want to see me.” Something small and hurt is creeping into my tone.
I need to end this quickly. “We’ll be on Venthros for another night at least. You can reach me at this number.
And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll … well, I guess that’s that. Anyway, yeah. Okay. Okay. Bye.”
I click off the handheld. And then I burst into tears.
I don’t hear him move, but Lament is there, folding his arms around me, tucking my face into his neck.
He’s making these shushing sounds, all soothing and concerned, which only makes me cry harder.
“It’s okay,” he says, but it’s not okay.
I need to get ahold of myself. I try to pull away, but he grips me tighter and says, “Not yet.”
So I just … let him hold me a little longer.
His body is warm. And he’s got one hand protectively around the back of my neck. And I fit perfectly here, like a moth in its cocoon. And is this really happening?
When we finally break apart, Lament looks … actually, he looks pretty pissed. “I shouldn’t have suggested calling him.”
“No,” I say weakly. “You were right. I had to try.”
“He’s wrong to ignore you like this. The way he makes you feel like … like you have to beg just to…” He shuts his mouth.
I shake my head. My pulse is slowing, my limbs suddenly heavy with exhaustion. I sniffle. “That’s not exactly why I’m upset.”
“Then why?” He reaches out a hand like he’s going to brush back my hair. Stops himself. And then … unstops himself. His fingers are soft against my temple. There’s no more air in the room. “Why are you crying?”
I grip my handheld. “I have a confession.”
“A confession?”
I nod. Swallow. “My mom isn’t dead.”
He’s silent for a long moment. “She’s not?”
“No.” I take a breath. “And there’s something else.”