Chapter 34
Thirteen days until eruption day is a lot of time.
And no time. We start to work on turning our idea into a true heist, breaking off into groups to discuss strategy.
Lament offers to contact Beckly Van from the Fifty-Seventh, because apparently Lament has his personal number.
The one that’s not linked to his Legion-issued handheld.
I’m irritated to learn this. And irritated by my irritation.
Because a planet is under attack and people’s lives are at stake and what does my jealousy matter?
As Lament steps into The Bargainer’s kitchenette to make the call, I tell myself I will not follow him and will not ask, because it’s immature and inappropriate and definitely none of my business.
Only then I find myself sort of … casually sliding into the kitchen for some water.
Because I’m thirsty. When I see Lament dial Beckly’s number and press the call button, my mouth opens to ask something about network security, but what comes out is, “Did you two date or something?”
Lament holds the handheld to his ear, frowning at me as it rings. “Really, Hartman?”
“It’s relevant background info,” I try half-heartedly. “For the mission.”
“It most certainly is not.”
I throw my hands in the air like he’s making a big deal over nothing, when in fact I am the one making a big deal over nothing. “It was just a question.”
“Why do you care?”
“You have his number.”
“I have your number, too, and Vera’s, and Jester’s—”
“His personal number.”
Lament’s eyes are twin glaciers. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”
I want to scream. The galaxy is on the brink of ruin, and everything’s going to shit, and we still never talked about the kiss.
“You’re right,” I mutter. “Sorry. Not my place.”
Lament’s expression falters. “Keller…”
“Hello?” comes Beckly’s voice over the line.
Lament’s eyes dart to his handheld. He hesitates, gaze flipping from the device to my face and back again.
“Hello?” Beckly asks a second time.
Lament returns the handheld to his ear. “Van.”
“Bringer?” I can hear Beckly clearly through the speaker. “Is that really you?”
“Who else would it be?”
“An AI impersonator,” he supplies immediately.
Lament frowns. “Why would I be an AI impersonator?”
“Because of everything that’s—” Beckly cuts himself off. “So, you’re not?”
“No.”
“Prove it,” he demands, with surprising vigor. I wonder, suddenly, what exactly is going on over on Skyhub to make Beckly so suspicious. “Tell me something only I would know about you. Something personal.”
I suck in an insulted breath, like I have any right to take offense to that. It’s just, even the suggestion that Beckly might know something about Lament that I don’t makes me want to peel off my skin.
I must make some sort of noise, because Lament glances at me, his jaw pulling like he’s biting his cheek. He gives me his shoulder and presses the handheld harder to his ear.
“In our debrief room,” Lament starts slowly, cupping the receiver to his mouth as if that’ll do anything to block his words, “I asked for your advice…”
My lungs are full of glue. My mouth is a sandpit. I almost can’t help myself from blurting, You should have come to me, you can always come to me for advice—
“… about Hartman,” Lament finishes.
Wait.
Excuse me?
“I asked about … things.” Lament continues, turning farther away so that I’m staring at the full width of his back, “And you told me to do what Mira did back when you two first became partners.”
There’s a pause on Beckly’s end. He must be moving around, because I hear muffled shuffling. “He’s there right now, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Lament glances at me. “Looking ready to tear this handheld from my grip, in fact.”
I blink back into my body. And … he’s kind of right.
I didn’t exactly mean to, but I’ve crept up behind Lament and am now sort of leaning menacingly over his shoulder like an ax murderer in a horror movie.
I take an embarrassed step back, even as I want to demand to know what the hell they’re talking about.
Lament asked Beckly Van something about me?
Advice about me? That was apparently so sensitive he can’t speak of it aloud?
“All right,” Beckly replies, blowing out a breath. “I believe it’s you. But where are you? The Legion released an internal statement this morning saying your fleet went AWOL. Then they called our forces out of Venthros and ordered us to remain within our detachments until further notice.”
Lament’s brows make sharp little arches. “They put you on lockdown? Did they say why?”
“No!” I can hear Beckly’s frustration, the stress in his voice.
“Mount Kilmon is set to erupt in less than two weeks. We’re supposed to be evacuating the Venthrothians, but the Legion has scrubbed the mission without explanation, and now our sergeant—Sergeant McLean—is talking about disobeying the Legion’s order, which is so strange for him, and I think there’s something going on here… ”
“Van, I need you to listen to me.” Lament drops his voice. “Doc Min’s simulation is a hoax.”
Beckly pauses again, longer this time. “It’s … what?”
“The Determinists have been planting operatives inside the Legion. That’s why you’ve been called off the mission.”
“All right,” Beckly says, then gives a strained laugh. “Wait, no. I’m so lost. You’re going to have to start from the beginning.”
Lament does. He launches into an abbreviated version of events, starting with Ran Doc Min’s voroxide and ending with the neutralizer.
“Doc Min plans to stop the Legion from interfering with Mount Kilmon’s eruption so he can have full control over who lives and who dies,” he finishes. “It’s the crux of his plot.”
“But…” Beckly sounds like he’s speaking through a straw. “But that’s ridiculous. The Legion can’t give in to the whims of a villain. We’re supposed to protect the galaxy against villains!”
“And we will,” Lament says, meeting my eye again. I wait. He tells Beckly: “Here’s what I need you to do.”
“What was all that about asking Beckly for advice?” I ask Lament almost as soon as he’s off the line.
Lament opens The Bargainer’s pantry (which is really just a storage space stuffed with PPMs) and looks through the pile of brown boxes until he finds one labeled vegan. He pulls it out and hefts it in his hands like he wants to put something between us. “Nothing.”
“You said it was about me.”
There’s an emotion in Lament’s face I can’t read. A pause or a look. A wariness. “So?”
“So, I think I should know what it was.”
“I wanted advice on how to deal with a partner when they’re being stubborn.”
I roll my eyes. “That makes two of us.”
“It wasn’t important.”
“But it was about me,” I emphasize.
Lament sets the PPM on the counter, crossing his arms so tightly it looks like he’s hugging himself. “You said that already.”
This isn’t going well. I told myself I’d give Lament the space he needs, that I wouldn’t push or prod or force him to assure me that we’re okay, that he doesn’t blame me for what happened to Bast, that these last two days haven’t ruined any chance for us to be …
whatever we were going to be. Yet here I am, boxing him in this tiny kitchen, demanding he give me more.
I rarely think about the size difference between us, but it’s obvious now, magnified here in this narrow space: how easily I could block his way out, how few options he’d have if I did.
We’re almost the same height, but he’s slender, lighter, all bones and skin.
I’m acting like a brute again, but I can’t make myself stop. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
“Maybe it isn’t something you want to hear,” he says.
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“No.”
Lament starts to move past me, abandoning his PPM on the counter.
And great, now he’s missing meals because of me.
I snag the box and hold it out, a peace offering.
“All right, hey, all right. I get that you and Beckly have … secrets.” The word tastes like poison.
I want to tear out my own windpipe. “That’s your right. I can respect that.”
Lament folds his arms even tighter, revealing the divots of sinew over the bones in his hands. “Big of you.”
“At least tell me this,” I plead. “Are you sure we can trust him?”
“You’d better hope so,” Lament says as he takes the PPM and slips past me, “since I just told him our entire plan.”
I let him go. I have nothing to say that he wants to hear, either.
I find Master Ira sitting on a large rock outside The Bargainer. He’s wearing a spare set of Caspen’s clothes (his old ones were filthy beyond hope), and he’s facing the direction of Planet Venthros, looking up at the sky. It’s midday. Sunny. It’s always sunny on Purvuva.
“I want you to know,” he says without looking at me, “I never learned the reason your mother left you at my school. I rarely do, with the kids. If I’d been aware of the truth, I would have told you.”
I join him on the rock. It’s flat enough to make for a comfortable seat, warm against the back of my legs. “I know.”
Silence settles over us. I try to enjoy the warmth. The rare absence of Purvuva wind. But I’m too distracted to stay silent for long.
“You’ve seen our plan,” I begin. “How we’re going to steal the Determinists’ neutralizer.”
“I have.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
He’s still looking at the sky. “Yes, Keller, I think it could.”
“But there’s a chance it won’t.”
He drops his eyes to mine. They’re the same as they’ve always been, black but not dark, searching, honest. I can picture him as he once was, in the dining room at the children’s home, or in the garden.
The memories come back stronger than I would have expected, details I hadn’t even noticed at the time, the fire-oven smell of the kitchen, the way sunlight fell in fat orange strips across the floor.
Murals on every surface. Flowers in all the pots.
Master Ira tips his head. “Did you want to ask me something?”