Chapter 22
On silent agreement, our group heads straight from the sergeant’s office, down the hall, through the common room, back up the adjacent hall, and into the detachment’s library.
The cave raptor guts have been scoured from the wall, the air vents screwed back into place.
As soon as we’re inside, Lament kicks the door closed and rounds on Vera.
“We agreed not to bring up Mount Kilmon’s fumes,” he growls.
“We definitely agreed not to bring up Bast.”
“But this is getting out of hand,” Vera pleads. “Sergeant Forst is our commanding officer. We finally have solid evidence—something that could explain Bast’s death. Who else are we supposed to tell?”
“No one.”
“But the sergeant should know.”
“Why?” Lament demands. “Bast is dead. He was killed in a freak accident by a poisonous gas leaking out of an ancient mountain. We went hunting for answers, and we found them. Case closed.”
“You don’t believe that,” I say quietly. Lament rounds on me next, looking about ready to pop a blood vessel, but I continue. “You said it yourself. The timelines don’t match.”
“I was wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you?” Lament snaps, in a voice that’s growing harder by the second. “Isn’t this what you’ve all been thinking? That I’m grasping at straws? Hunting for closure where there is none? Letting grief cloud my thinking?” He glares around the room. “Well? Haven’t I?”
The others drop their eyes. I almost do, too, because the last time we talked about Bast, I did think that. And I regret it. And I want Lament to know that.
“No,” I say, “you haven’t.”
Lament’s lips get even more sneery. “Really?”
“Ran Doc Min said the voroxide won’t spread until the eruption,” I continue, undaunted by his anger, because I understand his anger.
“That’s how he’ll have time to deliver his neutralizer—it’s kind of the crux of his whole story.
Only, Moon Dancer went down months ago, just like you said.
So either Doc Min is wrong, or we’re missing something. ”
“Lament?” Vera asks cautiously. “Is that what you think? That we’re missing something?”
Lament looks mutinous for about point five seconds, then drops his shoulders and gives a very Lament-like sigh. “Maybe. Yes. FPS is supposed to be infallible—Doc Min wouldn’t have gained such a huge following otherwise—but there appear to be inconsistencies in its predictions.”
“Something odd is going on here,” I add, “and I think Trey Morton is afraid we’re going to figure out what.”
That earns me some stares. “What are you talking about?”
“The professor is a Determinist. I had the displeasure of learning that when he cornered Lament and me on our flight deck. It makes sense that Morton would be quick to defend Doc Min, seeing as he’s his leader.
What doesn’t make sense is why Morton was so fast to shut Vera down when she brought up Bast’s death today.
For some reason, Morton doesn’t want the Legion reopening Bast’s case.
He’s hiding something, and he’s using his influence as a Director to block the sergeant—and us—from finding out what. ”
“He can’t block the sergeant,” Vera says. “He’s a Board-appointed civilian. He’s not even Legion!”
“Unless he’s holding something over her,” Avi suggests.
“Blackmail?” Vera is looking more distressed by the second. “You know Sergeant Forst. She’s clean.”
“No one is clean,” Avi says. “Speaking as your spymaster—”
There’s a collective chorus of groans.
“—everyone has a weakness. Something they cherish that could be stolen, loved ones to hurt, a shady past to reveal.” Avi’s ponytail swings as she emphasizes, “Everyone.”
Vera flings out her arms. “So let’s say you’re right, and there’s more going on with the mist—gas—whatever, than meets the eye. If the sergeant can’t help us, and Morton might try to stop us, what do we do?”
Everyone looks between Lament and me. I half expect Lament to close up again, tell us we’re wasting our breath, but apparently he’s warmed up to this conversation, because he says, “I think it’s time we hunt Ran Doc Min down once and for all.
We’ll do it off the record. No Legion red tape, no mission briefings or media attention.
Just us, the Determinist, and some answers. ”
There’s a pause.
Avi rounds on Illiviamona. “I thought you healed him.”
“I did,” the Lorian replies.
“So why is he talking like he’s got some sort of brain fever?”
“I don’t have brain fever,” Lament argues.
“We can’t just talk to Ran Doc Min,” Youvu Hum says. “If it was that easy, the Legion would have done it ages ago. He refuses to meet with us, and no one knows where to find him.”
“That’s not true.” Lament frowns at his feet, running fingers through his hair.
The button of his cuff has come undone at his wrist, revealing the edge of a scar.
“We know Doc Min lives on a ship called The Parallax. We know it’s within hologram range of Venthros.
Jester, is there a way to reverse engineer his hologram signal? ”
I told you already, Jester says, the signal is encrypted.
“Not to mention,” Vera argues, “even if we somehow uncovered The Parallax’s location, how would we get there? You and Keller are both tied up with red cards, to say nothing of the additional measures the sergeant put in place after our fiasco on Purvuva. She DNA-grounded the two of you.”
“We could wait until the red cards are overturned,” Toph suggests.
“That could take months,” Youvu Hum returns. “Mount Kilmon is set to erupt in—what? A few weeks?”
“Midsummer,” I say, doing the math. “So yeah, seven weeks.”
“We could ask the sergeant to reconsider,” the other Youvu Hum says. “DNA blocking is immoral anyway. It’s basically imprisonment.”
“I don’t think now is the time to start debating morality with the sergeant,” Toph puts in.
“We’re not going to wait on our red cards,” Lament says, “and we’re not going to involve the sergeant.”
Vera crosses her arms. “What’s your solution, then?”
“We’ll use Moon Dancer.”
There’s another, longer pause.
But, Jester says, she’s destroyed.
Lament shakes his head. “What do you think I’ve been doing every night in the workshop?”
“We know you’ve been attempting repairs,” Vera hedges, “but we just thought … I mean, Lament. You’re not a mechanic. And Moon Dancer—I don’t mean to sound harsh, but we all saw the damage. I’m not sure anyone could fix her.”
“Ask Hartman.” Lament turns toward me. “He’ll tell you.”
My earlier anger—temporarily halted in the face of all these revelations—chooses this moment to reemerge. “Tell them what?”
Lament drops back a fraction. He looks suddenly uncertain. “About Moon Dancer. About the repairs I’ve been doing.”
I arch a brow. It’s mean-spirited, I know that, but I’m tired of Lament letting me in only when he wants, of opening up and showing me his vulnerability only to shut me out again, over and over.
I’m tired of pining over him, how he has so much of my loyalty and all my attention, which he apparently thinks he can summon on command.
Like he’s doing now. He wants me to back him up about Moon Dancer—he just assumes I will—and it makes me feel stupid and used. And I know I’m being petty, that I’m probably acting like an asshole, but today has been shit, and I’m still pissed at him, and exhausted, and just fucking over it.
I shrug and say nothing.
Hurt flashes through Lament’s eyes. I see him wilt, visibly, but unlike normal, he doesn’t quickly cover his feelings with a cool exoskeleton. Doesn’t rush to rebuild his walls. He just … stays kind of downtrodden, working his lip between his teeth, unsure where to set his eyes.
“Well.” He clears his throat. Glances around the group. Tugs at his sleeve, notices the undone button at his wrist, clasps his hands behind his back. “You’ll just have to take my word for it. Moon Dancer is fixable. On her way to flying, actually. Or, I mean, I think she is.”
Avi sits into her hip. “You think?”
“We can let Toph do an assessment.” Lament clears his throat again.
Scratches his neck. And hell, I’m going to have to strangle him for this, because I thought leaving him hanging would make me feel better, but now I just feel like I’ve kicked a one-legged puppy.
“Toph can…,” Lament tries. “I mean, we’ll let him make the final call—”
“She’ll fly,” I assert, with an internal sigh. “No assessment from Toph necessary. I’ve seen Moon Dancer. The progress Lament has made is impressive. He’s just waiting on a tool. A compounder, I think it’s called?”
“To mold the zurillium.” Toph gives an appreciative nod. “But what about the interior systems? Propulsion tank—?”
“Fixed,” Lament says.
“Pressurant forces?”
“Fixed.”
“Lines, power packs, regulators, thrusters?”
“Some were undamaged, but those that needed work have been repaired. They’re all ready to go.”
Toph grins. “You have been busy.”
No one looks skeptical anymore. The Sixers are all exchanging eager looks, murmuring things like Can you believe it?
and Of course Lament did. Lament glances at me, his expression a mix of hope and relief and lingering uncertainty, but just because I defended him doesn’t mean I want Lament’s feelings right now.
I can’t afford their burden, not when my own chest is still too tight and my eyes are dry rocks and everything feels laced with meaning. I look away.
“Once the compounder arrives,” Lament says, turning reluctantly back to the group, “it’s just a matter of re-forming the body and getting Moon Dancer in the air. I’ll work as fast as I can…”
“And we’ll help,” Vera says.
“You’ll need as many hands as possible,” the first Youvu Hum agrees.
“If we want this thing finished before the eruption,” adds the other. “You and Toph can show us what to do.”
Lament looks touched, and a little shy for being touched. He smiles. “Thanks, everyone.”
“Group hug?!” Avi squeals.
Lament’s smile dies a sudden death. “I am not—
“Bring yer chippers in!” Caspen hollers, and everyone springs forward, wrapping Lament up in the center, jumping and hooting as he tries to break free. He meets my gaze through the space between Toph’s and Jester’s arms, giving me please save me eyes.
The moment is light. I want to be able to take part in it, to laugh in good humor at the distress on Lament’s face, for things to be okay between us. But they’re not, and I can’t, so I don’t.