Chapter 26 #2
The next forty-eight hours pass in a blur of secret meetings and research sessions and too many energy drinks to count.
Jester works on breaking through The Parallax’s interference network, Toph equips Moon Dancer with accelerated tracking systems, and the Youvu Hums plot how to distract the sergeant long enough to get us out of the detachment without notice, which involves, of all things, feathers, oil, and a length of rope.
At some point, our group migrates from Lament’s room into Moon Dancer’s workshop, and I pore over old articles written about Ran Doc Min, his followers, what little is known about his simulation.
Occasionally, I glance at the door, but Lament never shows up.
“Tesser Lane is an arachnidadia,” Avi tells me late one evening.
I’m perched on an overturned crate in the workshop listening to Avi enumerate on Ran Doc Min’s closest known cronies while trying to memorize as much of what she’s saying as my brain can manage.
I feel stuffed, overripe, but with only thirteen hours left before I’m due on The Parallax, I can’t afford to miss a thing.
Avi scribbles nonsense on her whiteboard as she continues.
“Being an arachnidadia—a nonhuman species from Planet Orador—means Tesser can communicate with arachnids. Apparently, she’s trained an army of spiders to do her bidding.
” Avi gives me an appraising look. “How many spiders would you like crawling on you at one time?”
“Um,” I say. “Ideally, none.”
“You have to pick a number.”
“My number is zero. I would like zero spiders.”
“Then there’s Jij,” Avi continues without pause, drawing lots of looping circles that, again, mean nothing.
“They’re another nonhuman blend of extraterrestrials we haven’t been able to identify.
Possibly born from some sort of splicing experiment.
First of their kind. They have over twenty high-profile kills on their record, and they like to use poison.
If they give you anything to eat or drink, do not. ”
I lean back and cross my arms, eying the eleven-year-old. “How do you know all this?”
“It’s part of my job as spymaster.”
“But I thought—”
“Keller,” Vera interrupts. “Jester has something for you.”
Jester’s usually kempt hair is a frizzy mess, his clothes hanging sadly on his thin frame. Like the rest of us, he looks like he hasn’t showered or slept in two days, because he hasn’t. He holds out what appears to be a small tangle of roots.
Be grateful I was able to get my hands on one of these at such short notice, he says, handing me the object. It will allow you to communicate with us while you’re on The Parallax. It’s biological—not technological—so The Parallax’s anticommunication shields won’t be able to interfere.
The item is small, barely the size of my thumbnail. It looks like a ball of wet fuzz. “But what is it?”
It’s called a keening. It’s a type of fungus.
Or, really, it’s both the name of the fungus and the name of the organism itself.
Keening is actually a single organism that’s split into hundreds of separate pieces, like this one, but remains connected.
It’s—or they’re? Sorry, the etymology gets confusing—it’s very sensitive to its surroundings.
That piece of keening can feel the energy of a place, and it’ll react accordingly, growing smaller and darker in times of stress, vibrating if it’s in pain, turning white when it’s happy.
Since all keenings are really just one organism, if a part of keening is affected, all of it is.
If you have that piece—he motions to the fungus in my hand—and I have this piece—he extracts a slightly larger wad from his pocket—we’ll be able to sense what’s going on with each other.
“I … this is great and all,” I say, bobbing my head in an I’m-really-impressed-and-definitely-not-doubting-this-plan sort of way, “but I’m seeing a few potential … um, I have questions. Like, what if I’m just nervous but not in danger?”
We should be able to tell the difference based on how strongly the keening reacts.
“Okay, right, great. Um, but what if some other piece of keening gets hurt that has nothing to do with me?”
Keening reaches toward whatever piece is in distress. Kind of like how if I punch you in the stomach—he mimes punching me in the stomach—you’ll ball toward the injury. We should know if you’re the one in trouble based on your location.
“All right.” I’m trying to get behind this, but the idea that a little piece of wet lint fungus is going to act as my lifeline isn’t exactly winning me over. “What if I’m searched and they find the keening in my pocket?”
It just looks like a bit of dander. Jester shrugs. Most people won’t have any idea what it really is.
“Is there—?” I don’t know how to say this delicately. “Is there really no way to use, you know, technology to connect us?”
Technology isn’t always the solution. Jester looks reproachful. This is the best option we’ve got.
And so, without much other choice, I put the keening in my pocket.
It’s almost two in the morning by the time we head to bed. Though I’d like to spend these final hours going over the plan, Vera points out that it’ll be worthless if tomorrow I’m too tired to function. As a group, we meander back to the residence hallway and bid each other good night.
Vera pauses by my door and, seemingly on impulse, pulls me into a swift, fierce hug. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Yeah,” I say, hugging her back.
“If you change your mind.” She draws away. “At any point. Or if something goes wrong…”
“It won’t.”
“We’ll come for you. I know The Parallax is supposed to be impenetrable, but we’ll find a way. Do you hear me? We’ll be nearby the entire time, monitoring the keening and waiting for a signal. Once you’re on The Parallax, you’ll be by yourself, but you won’t be alone.”
“I—” My eyes prick without warning. I pull her in for another hug, resting my cheek against her mane of hair. “Thanks, Vera. You’ve no idea what that means to me.”
We give each other a final watery smile and say good night. I wait until Vera is shut safely in her room before sloping toward my own quarters. I’ve barely taken three steps before my eyes find their way to Lament’s door.
I should go to bed. Get my sleep, let him get his. But that feels cowardly. And we agreed to be honest with each other. And Lament deserves better. So off my feet take me, down the hall and up to his door.
My first knock is quiet, a barely audible tap tap tap.
After pausing for what I hazard is an acceptable response time threshold, I tell myself to stop being chicken and try again, an aggressive ratatat that, I reflect, will not only announce my presence to Lament, but the rest of the detachment and possibly all of Skyhub.
I shove my hands into my pockets as I wait, but there’s still no answer. So maybe Lament is asleep, maybe his headphones are in, maybe …
“Lament?” My hand is on the knob. “I know you’re in there.” Still no reply. “All right, I’m coming in.”
I step inside to find Lament sitting on his couch in semidarkness. His shoes are off, socks scrunched down to his ankles. There’s a single lamp casting orange light around the room and a tumbler of brown liquid on the table beside him.
He looks up at my arrival, then away. “It’s rude to enter uninvited.”
“It’s rude to ignore your partner when they knock.”
“Maybe I don’t want company.”
“Then say, Gee, Keller, I don’t want company.”
He uncrosses his legs, only to recross them in the other direction. “Is there something you need?”
“You’re being a jerk, which means you’re upset.”
“If you’ve come to apologize, you’re off to a great start.”
I move to sit on the couch beside him, half expecting him to up and leave. But he doesn’t. Just picks up his glass and takes a sip.
“Is that whiskey?”
“Apple juice.”
“I seem to remember you once lecturing me about the detachment’s liquor policy.”
Lament gives an unhappy laugh. “Maybe you’ve corrupted me.”
I study his face: hair backlit by lamplight, lips pressed together, posture too studied, too exact. He looks small in the dark. Breakable. It makes me physically ache to touch him. To take him into my arms and tell him everything will be okay. “Want to explain why you’re drinking alone?”
Another sip. “Not particularly.”
“Is it the BlackWing?” I ask. “Is that why you’re upset?”
“I think we have established what is upsetting me, Hartman.”
“Don’t Hartman me. Look. I know you’re…” I scramble for the right word and come up empty. “I know you’d rather us not see out this plan. And yes, there are a few small risks, but—”
“They’re not small.” He sets his glass down with enough force to make the liquid jump. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you hell-bent on going through with this?”
“I’m a gunner. Flying into danger is kind of my job.”
He looks unhelpfully down at his lap, rubs his wrist. His eyes catch the light, and I notice they’re rimmed red. “I feel like I’m sending you to your grave.”
“I’m sending myself,” I rejoin, then wince. “I mean—not to my grave. I’m sending myself on this mission.”
“A mission organized by your mother, who abandoned you, and Ran Doc Min, who we don’t trust, on an impenetrable spacecraft, where—should something go wrong—we cannot help you.
” Lament’s voice is at its most precise, which I once would have thought cold.
Now, I understand that’s the voice he uses to cover his fear. “How is that not a suicide mission?”
“Jester gave me a piece of keening.”
“Really?” His eyes are a little wild. “That’s your answer? A bit of mushroom is going to protect you from the might of a man like Doc Min?”