Chapter 45
TASK
SFS POLARIS, PORT OF AETHERION, NEXARIUM
“Someone knows,” Draven says, hours after the Force has broken the Rev blockade and the Polaris has docked at the Port of Aetherion. They’re to remain there for twenty-one days, separate from the infected, to ensure they are clear of the Fever.
Task sits at the table in the bridge deck of the Polaris, blood still under his nails and smeared across his hands.
He feels empty, blank, hasn’t fully comprehended that Caelinus is gone, but he knows it to be true.
He looks at the hologram of his uncle, waiting for him to say more.
“I saw it in one of their minds. The reason they executed now is because someone has told them I’m ailing.
That my grip on the Consortium is tenuous. ”
Task swallows. How could anyone know? They’ve been careful to keep it a secret. Task thinks at least one of these problems could be alleviated if Draven were to formally name Task his heir, and he contemplates raising it with him.
“I need my Vitalis.” Draven looks at him pointedly. “I’m tired of waiting, Task. I was patient with you, entertained your little bouts of rebellion, but I’m still here, withering away. Quelling a rebellion that has grown far too strong. I’m through.”
“I just…I wasn’t going to risk your life, the lives of citizens on Nexarium,” Task tries to explain, an image of Kit laughing in the sundome flashing through his mind. “And we’ve stopped the Revs. As we always do.”
Draven holds up a hand. “My patience has grown thin. There will be no more excuses. Either you bring her to me by the end of the week, or I will send someone else to do what you seem unable to. Perhaps Alexander will be up to the task.” He says the last words like a taunt, pushing the button he knows will rile Task up the most. And then, as if he’d read Task’s earlier thoughts, “I was prepared to formally announce your heirship upon your successful completion of this mission.” He frowns at his desk, squaring a stack of papers that Task strains to read upside down.
They’re the Binding documents that would confer Draven’s title to him upon his death — the thing that Task has been striving for since he was eighteen.
“Alas…” Draven trails off, looking up at Task again.
Task swallows over the lump in his throat, struggling with the guilt that builds in his gut.
Over the weeks that Task has been on the Polaris, separated from Draven, out from under his thumb, their relationship has soured.
It makes Task uncomfortable, because it’s never been like this before.
He’s always made Draven happy; has done everything he’s asked of him.
Draven is now decidedly unhappy, and it brings Task back to the place he was before he manifested, the feeling of immense uselessness rearing up inside of him.
Yes, he’s perhaps been dragging it out a bit, but he wanted to respect the rules of the quarantine.
More than that, he’d wanted Kit to find the cure and to heal the ambassador before bringing her back to Nexarium.
And yes, he’s told her he loves her, does love her, but does that mean more than saving Draven, saving Nexarium? Securing the Consortium and his future?
Seeing Draven withering away before him, the grief of losing Caelinus fresh in his mind, he knows it doesn’t.
It can’t. Their empire matters more than anything.
More than whatever he thought he could have with Kit.
It was all time-bound, fated to go up in flames anyway.
If he doesn’t capture her, some other Guardian will. Alexander will.
He bites down on the inside of his cheek hard, pain shooting through him. The one thing he knows better than anything else. And what’s a little more?
“Do you understand me, Task?” Draven’s voice cuts through the silence, his violet eyes pinned on him. The one part of Draven that is still full of life, despite every other part of his countenance appearing drained.
Task closes his eyes, breathes in. Preparing himself to say the words.
To promise that he’ll do this. To break his own heart.
He opens them, fixing his parents and Caelinus in the center of his mind.
“I understand, uncle. You’ll have her before the week’s end.
” He pauses, then asks, “When will you sign the Binding papers?” He needs to confirm this is happening, that Draven will follow through on his word.
“As soon as she’s here,” Draven says, nonchalant, as he opens a drawer, pulling out a crystal decanter of amber liquid and pouring some into a glass. He raises it to Task. “To House Dormius.”
Task doesn’t have a drink, though he thinks that’s probably a blessing. If he starts drinking now, he’s not sure he’ll stop. “To House Dormius.” He pushes himself to his feet. “I need to debrief with Voss and prepare the mission summaries. I’ll see you soon.”
He finds Voss in his quarters, freshly bathed, his reddish hair combed through and pushed off his forehead.
He notices a bit of blood under Voss’s fingernails too, but for the most part, it looks as though he’s had a perfectly normal day.
Not at all like Task, who is still covered in a mix of rebel and Caelinus’ blood.
He hasn’t bothered to shower, to remove his dirty clothes.
It all seems pointless, when yet another person has been taken from him by the Revs.
“Hey, Shadow.” Voss looks up from where he sits at his metal desk, setting his Prism on the table. He takes him in, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about Caelinus.”
Task doesn’t reply. Words won’t bring him back, and there’s no room for emotion anymore. Instead, he says, “I’m leaving the Polaris tomorrow. I need to finish my mission for Draven.”
Voss quirks a brow, pushing his chair back from the table and folding his arms across his chest. “Are you ever going to tell me what this mission is?”
Task wants to, desperately. It’s almost slipped off his tongue more than once, and after today, the desire to have someone share the burden with him is overwhelming. He’s tired of being alone with it, doesn’t want to have to bear it anymore.
“I will not do anything to jeopardize it,” Voss says, eyes flitting over Task. “I think you need a friend.” He pauses, sliding open a drawer in the desk and pulling out a stack of wooden disks. “And to weave.” He holds them out expectantly and Task huffs, taking them from Voss.
He walks over to Voss’ bed, drops down on it as he worries his lip between his teeth. He’s on the verge of breaking, and as he looks at the dried blood on his hands, he finds the secret spilling out of him. “You know Kit’s a Vitalis, right?”
“Yes,” Voss says immediately. “It’s why the mercenaries were sent after her.”
Task sighs, looking at the ceiling and then back at his friend, Voss’ brown eyes locked on him. “We are too.”
Voss cocks his head to the side, trying to understand. “We are what?”
“After her.” Task fiddles with the wooden panels in his hands and thinks that no amount of weaving is going to cure the ache in his chest. The grief will simply take up residence in the part of his heart that can’t be touched.
“We’re after her?”
“Draven is,” Task says, and he almost wonders how Voss didn’t put it together, after learning about Kit’s power. Voss had been there for the arrival of Kit’s mother, before Task had been born, and he had been even older when she’d vanished from Nexarium without a trace.
“Why?”
Task considers telling Voss the whole truth. But he worries that revealing that is a bridge too far, so instead says, “He wants to restore the Eight Great to its former glory. Kit is the eighth.”
Task can see the moment it clicks in his mind. Voss’ eyes light up and he sits up straighter, swearing loudly. “Fuck.”
Task puts his head in his hands, pushing them through his hair as he looks up at Voss with a sad smile. “Fuck indeed.”
“Task…” Voss starts, crossing to where Task sits, utterly defeated.
“There’s nothing to be done,” Task says. “We need her.”
“You need her,” Voss says. “You can’t — There’s no way — " He shakes his head, circling back to, “You can’t.”
“I must,” Task rasps, barely getting the words out as he thinks about what he’ll have to do in just a few short hours. Betray her trust, take her away from her family, her friends, her work, everything she knows. Lock her away in a cell under Xaria to be harvested.
“There has to be another way,” Voss says, picking up the Prism and tapping at it rapidly, the screen reflected in his eyes. “What about the quarantine?”
“Draven has given me an ultimatum. He’s no longer willing to wait, quarantine or not. If I don’t do it, someone else will. And he’s made up the Binding papers for formal conference of the heirship. He’ll sign them once she’s at Xaria.”
Voss sits quietly, his fist pressed into his mouth as he digests. “You’ll break her heart.”
And my own, Task thinks.
She turns as he walks through the door to her lab, her smile lighting up her face as she sees him. “Task!”
He fights the nausea that rises in his stomach, forces it down as she sets down the beaker she’s holding, slides her gloves off so she can run to him.
She throws herself into his arms, and he tries not to stiffen, to receive her the way she’s used to now.
It’s torture, having her in his arms, her head tucked under his chin.
She steps back, tilting her head to take him in. “You’re alright?”
“Obviously,” Task says, gesturing to himself.
Kit frowns, studying him, clearly looking for well-hidden or poorly mended injuries. “The blockade?”
“Handled, for the time being.”
Kit purses her lips. “I suppose that’s a good thing for you.”
“It’s a good thing for everyone, Kit. Nexarium keeps the peace in the Consortium. Without it, we’d devolve into war. Supplies wouldn’t get across the universe. It would be chaos.” He says it with conviction, hands curling into fists at his sides.
She says nothing, merely turns away from him and fiddles with something at her workstation.
He could do it now, when she’s unsuspecting, focused on something else.
But selfishly, he wants his lips on hers one last time, wants her hands on him again before he ruins everything.
He steps behind her, wraps an arm around her chest and pulls her back into him, lowers his lips to her neck as she lets out a little gasp.
He can feel the syringe in his pocket, pressing into him like the damning little tool it is.
“Look at me,” he commands, lips at her ear.
She scrambles to turn in his arms, leaning back against her workstation. He marvels at the way she rushes to please him. So different from where they were three months ago.
He stares down at her, remembering the last time they were here.
The way he’d gotten on his knees for her, licked her until she’d been screaming his name and coming undone in his arms. The way she’d blushed afterwards, swearing about how unprofessional it was of her to do that.
How he’d growled that he’d show her unprofessional and fucked her over her desk.
Her pulse is leaping in her throat at his proximity. He can tell what he does to her, but thinks she does worse things to him. She’s made him into a fool.
He feels himself growing hard as he presses himself into her, attaches his lips to her throat as she whimpers, her hand coming up to grip the hair at the nape of his neck. “Task.”
“It’s late, love,” he says, lips still roaming over her neck, goosebumps breaking out on her skin as he moves to her earlobe, sucks it into his mouth. “No one knows we’re here.” Except Voss. Who is presently preparing a Hopper for them, to get them to Xaria as quickly as possible.
He kisses along her jawline, pauses when he’s hovering over her lips, looking into her green eyes. They’re dilated, her fingers still twisted in his hair. “You’ve ruined me, Kit,” he says, quietly. “Totally and completely.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she scoffs, but she keeps her eyes fixed on his, as if locked in his gaze.
“Not being dramatic,” he says. He moves his hand to her cheek, pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and kisses her, long and deep.
Tries to savor the feeling, knowing this will be the last time he touches her, the last time he’ll hold her like this, feel her soothing presence.
He moves his mouth against hers, her tongue sliding against his as he reaches into his pocket, grips the syringe.
He has to do this. There’s no other way.
He pulls away from her for a split second, rests his forehead against hers as she tries to reclaim his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and then brings his shaking hand to her neck, plunging the needle in. She goes limp in his arms almost instantly, and he catches her weight, a fissure cracking open in his heart.
He needs to move quickly.