As the first heady excitement faded, I began to look closer, to identify the subtle differences between us, the things the uniform had hidden. Hathan’s skin tone was impossibly even. What human my own age, with a complexion lighter than mine, would sport no freckles or blemishes, no scars at all? That wasn’t quite true though; that patch on his left forearm, the one I had seen him examining earlier, was scored with dark blue lines. There were subtle differences in skeletal structure, as well. Unthinkingly I reached out to brush my fingertips along an unfamiliar ridge on his shoulder above the joint. “I don’t think we have this one.”
“Or this.” He touched his fingers to his breastbone, where five distinct points pressed outward against the skin in a vertical line, like spines along the rim of a seashell. “Or these,” and he showed me the bony spur on the back of each heel.
“No wonder you couldn't find boots that fit,” I said.
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “It’s a little disconcerting, isn’t it?”
“A little,” I admitted. My head felt oddly light. I recalled a moment from much earlier in the mission, when I had cut myself in the Pinion’s galley, and the sight of red blood caused Vethna to vomit. We were so alike, most of the time, that the differences came as an unlooked-for shock. My mind offered another memory, this one from a few days ago, of the stunned silence with which my crewmates had greeted my first appearance in a swimsuit. I understood their response now better than I had then. Was this moment the same as that one? Were they two identical pieces of the work we were doing together, sharing vulnerabilities, acknowledging disparity in order to overcome it? Or was this deliberate uncovering something more? Reyna’s words of mere minutes ago echoed in my mind. I wouldn’t undress for someone I didn’t want. Would Hathan? What did this moment mean to him?
Before I could delve any deeper into the question, he said, “Shall we?”
“Yes.” I forced myself to move. The water had unquestionably gotten colder in the time since I’d left it. When I had walked in up to my waist, I turned to look back at the shore. Hathan stepped forward into the shallows. A look of alarm crossed his face. I laughed. “You’re going to have to come in a little farther than that.”
“It’s certainly . . . invigorating.” He waded farther in. “And this is something you actually enjoy?”
“I love it. But,” I felt compelled to add, “most people would think this water was pretty cold.”
“Not you though.”
“I grew up swimming in water colder than this.”
“Why?” He said it with such evident distaste that I laughed again.
As he joined me in the deeper water, I felt suddenly uncertain. I had never in my life taught anyone to swim. There was no Echelon ship hovering above us now, poised to rescue him from drowning. There was only me. And it was that fact, the certainty of being absolutely responsible for his life or death, that enabled me to maintain the necessary composure, to distance myself from the feel of his skin on mine as he took my outstretched hand. His presence here in the water was an act of trust, just as my first step onto the Pinion’s landing craft had been. We might be alone together, and practically naked, and all the things I felt about him might be humming distractingly just under my skin. But this, this moment, was unequivocally the work I had come here to do.
And wasn’t water at night more like space than it was like anything else: the cold, the dark, the surrender to weightlessness? The thought was pleasing in its symmetry. “Okay,” I said. “First things first. You need to learn how to float.”
The swim lesson, in the end, took all of ten minutes. The real hurdle for Hathan was accepting that swimming in icy-cold mountain rivers at nightfall was a leisure activity in which people—any people—voluntarily partook. Once that was out of the way, he learned the actual mechanics of the sport almost at once. We raced across the river (of course he won handily) and stroked back at a leisurely pace. By tacit agreement we made for the shore. A sigh escaped me as my toes found the stones of the riverbed.
I didn’t know he had heard it until he said softly, “All things end.”
The words were more fitting than he knew. “Yes,” I agreed. “They do. I promise you I’m not ungrateful. Everything about Rikasa has been perfect.”
“Even the broken ankle?”
That more than anything, I thought, but I said only, “It was worth it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We returned to camp and separated to dress in privacy. I’d let myself get colder than I realized. Even when I’d been fully dressed and moving around for a few minutes, I continued to shiver intermittently. I was also starving. Knowing the two problems shared a common remedy, I set up my camp kitchen in the shelter of a rock outcropping with a clear view of the river. Once my macaroni was simmering in its pot of flash-boiled water, I dug into my pack again, hunting for my flask. Bourbon wouldn’t actually make me warmer, but it would make me feel that way until the food was ready.
By the time I located the flask, tucked into a spare wool sock under nearly everything else in my pack, Hathan had joined me and begun setting up his own cooking gear. He had donned a few extra layers too, I saw. I took a long swig from my flask and then offered it to him. To my surprise, he took it. To my greater surprise, he didn’t bother to decant the bourbon into a cup before drinking it. He didn’t even clean the opening with his sleeve. As I watched him lift the flask to his lips, I felt the better part of the heat I’d lost to the river rushing back in all at once, mostly to my face. It was another unlooked-for intimacy, so close on the heels of the first one—his casual disrobing on the beach—that I wondered, again, if I was wrong to read meaning into it. Things had changed between us since our arrival on Rikasa. Had they changed that much?
“Saresh was right,” he said as he handed back the bourbon. “It would be easy to get into trouble with that.”
I set the flask on the ground between us. “Help yourself. I’ve got another bottle back on the ship.”
“Thank you. I had whiskey, but I haven’t seen it for a couple of days. Not since Zey helped me reorganize my gear. I have a feeling he may have reorganized it into his pocket.”
“Or into his mouth,” I said.
“That was certainly the end objective.”
When I judged that the pasta was ready, I drained off the starchy liquid directly into a cup of instant miso, a trick from my college backpacking days. I drank the soup as quickly as I could without scalding myself, then moved on to my macaroni and cheese. I was surprised at how rapidly the food cooled in the open air; I’d taken the temperature regulation of Ahnir’s communal tent for granted. Hathan, clearly thinking the same thing, took out his own tent and adjusted the field to its maximum setting, which neatly enveloped the two of us sitting cross-legged on the ground. And just like that, I thought, we were officially sharing his tent.
We ate quickly, then lingered with mugs of warm liquid—tea for me, senek for him—in hand. There were dishes to be washed, and I knew I ought to at least take a pass at rearranging my pack for the morning’s ascent, but I was in no hurry to leave our cozy pocket of warm air. The golden moon had set. I leaned back against the rock outcropping, drew my sleeping bag over my legs, and watched the track of white moonlight on the river. It bore an inescapable resemblance to another glittering path: one more ethereal still, one that existed only in my mind. That one had led me from Californian sunlight into outer darkness, through the path of a bullet and over the threshold of a conference room. I thought it had ended in the void beyond Arkhati, but it hadn’t. It had merely gone dark for a while. Now it had led me here, to this moment, with this man. I didn’t believe in destiny. I never had. There was nothing compelling for me in the image of some divine inscrutable intellect mapping lives across each other like the bright intersecting lines on a star chart. But I was beginning to believe in convergence, in the powerful significance of those intersections, driven though they were by blind chance. My life and Hathan’s wove over a
nd under and across each other in a complex braid of convergences. Most of them were behind us now. There were others ahead, but the moment was fast approaching when my line would run on in one direction, and his in another, and they would not cross again.
Even as I thought it, I reached for my flask and found him doing the same. Our fingers brushed. We both laughed a little self-consciously; he withdrew his hand. All at once I felt uncertain. For months I had been telling myself that the right thing to do, the only possible thing, was to keep my feelings for him a secret. But what if I was wrong? What if I was taking too many things for granted, projecting my assumptions about love—and men—onto someone whom they only appeared to fit because he was roughly the right size and shape? I had taken it all on myself. I had made the choice for both of us. Maybe he deserved to make it for himself. Maybe he deserved to know.
He spoke into my silence. “What are you thinking about?”
In my culture the question was flirtatious; in any culture, it was intimate. I said, “Stellar cartography.”
“Really?”
I smiled to myself. “In a sense.”
“What about it?”
“I was thinking how much I still have to learn.” I waited, gauging the quality of his silence, then ventured, “Maybe you could teach me some more?”
“I could try,” he said, “but it might be difficult from here.”
“I guess it would be easier if we were back on the ship,” I acknowledged, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.
I heard a soft exhalation that might have been a laugh. “It would be easier if we were sitting closer together.”
I gathered up my sleeping bag and hitched myself along the rock wall until my shoulder touched his. He didn’t move away. A tingling warmth crept into my arm and spread slowly throughout my entire body. Hathan drew a breath, somewhat unsteadily, then let it out; I felt both through his arm.
Then he said, in a voice that sounded remarkably natural, “What questions do you have about stellar cartography?”
It was difficult to think. I racked my mind for a question. “Where’s Vardesh Prime?”
“Underneath us.”
“What?”
He laughed softly again. “It’s on the other side of the planet. We can’t see it from here.”
I scarcely heard his answer. My entire awareness was focused on the pressure of his shoulder against mine. Why wasn’t he pulling away? Distractedly I said, “Okay, where’s Earth?”
He made an unhurried scan of the heavens. Then he pointed. I noticed that he used the arm that wasn’t touching mine to do it. “Do you see that triangle of bright stars? There’s a cluster of fainter ones just above and to the left of the topmost one. Sol is one of those.”
I squinted. “I see them. I think. I might be looking at a cloud.”
“In any case, you’re looking in the right direction. What else?”
“Where’s . . . Where’s the Ascendant?”
“In orbit around the starhaven where we did our decontamination. The ship is too small to see, but . . .” He took out his flexscreen, snapped it out to its full size, and panned it across the horizon, all without withdrawing his arm from mine. Was it possible that he was actually leaning into the touch a little, just like I was? “We should be able to see the starhaven in a few minutes. It’s below the mountains now. Look for a very bright satellite in that direction.” He put away his flexscreen. We watched the horizon in silence for a time.
A breath of night air rustled the leaves of the nearby trees. The tent field, set as it was to maximum extension, couldn’t quite keep out the chill. I shivered.
“Are you warm enough?” Hathan asked.
I shook my head; my hair whispered against the hood of my down jacket. “No.”
“I could raise the air temperature in the tent.”
There was a meaning in his statement unattached to the words. It wasn’t like him to be indecisive. If he wanted to adjust the tent settings, he wouldn’t ask my permission, he’d just do it. He was giving me an opening to suggest something else. I said, “Could you put your arm around me?”
There was a little silence. Then, “Would you like me to put my arm around you?”
“Yes.”
He lifted his arm. I eased closer, pressed myself against his side. His arm settled around me. I put my head on his shoulder; he rested his cheek on my hair. I offered him the edge of the sleeping bag, and he took it, tucked it around himself, enfolding us both in a second tiny cocoon of warmth. I cast a fleeting look at his profile. The moonlight reduced everything it touched to a simple two-color palette of black and white. He looked like a statue carved from alabaster and jet.
I said, “If you were human, I would kiss you right now.”
He said, “If you were Vardeshi, you would ask my permission first.”
I took a deep breath. “Do I have your permission to kiss you?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
I turned toward him and laid my hand on his chest. I felt the smooth fabric of his shirt and, faintly, the heat of his body beneath it. If his heart was beating faster than usual, out of fear or excitement, I couldn’t tell. My own was pounding wildly. Gladness and terror chased each other through my blood, along with the fiery remnants of the bourbon. Hathan raised his left hand and covered my fingers with his, adding a new sensation of cool pressure to the others. Then he lifted his right hand to cradle my chin. He ran his thumb lightly across my lips. That single touch brushed away my lingering doubts like so many cobwebs. I slid my hand into his hair and kissed him.
After what felt like a very long time, and also like no time at all, he disengaged himself very gently and said, “Eyvri, I can’t do this. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve let it go too far already. I can’t take advantage of you like this. It’s wrong.”
Disappointment and mortification were a hot, corrosive ache in my chest. I said shakily, “Because of the Flare, you mean?”
“That’s one reason.”
“You’re think I’m”—the words were so bitter I choked on them—“emotionally compromised?”
“After what I’ve done to you, how could you not be?”
“What if I told you I wanted you before the Flare?”
He said disbelievingly, “Did you?”
I nodded.
“When did it start?”
“I’m not sure. A long time ago. Before Arkhati.” My voice trembled, giving the words the lilt of a question.
“Before Arkhati,” he repeated. “We left Arkhati six months ago.”
“Like I said, it’s been a long time.”
Hathan said slowly, “Even if I believed you, there are other reasons. Many of them. You know I’m not”—he raised his right hand slightly, and the gold sigil winked in the shifting light—“free.”
“I know. I’m not asking for . . . I knew it would only be for tonight.” I fought to steady my voice. “I know it’s wrong, by both of our lights, but I also know that she’s not in love with you. And you’re not in love with her. Are you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“So who would it hurt?”
“The obvious answer to that question is you.”
I said fiercely, “I’m telling you, I’m not broken, and I’m not confused. We both know exactly what we’re talking about. One night, no strings. Tomorrow we walk away. Go back to our lives. Pretend it never happened.”
“In nine months I’ve never seen you tell a convincing lie. What makes you think you can do it now?”
I had an answer for that, at least. “I just told you I’ve wanted you for six months. Still think I can’t keep a secret?”
A hesitation. I could feel him thinking, turning the pieces over and fitting them together. The knowledge that he was willing to give the notion a moment’s thought filled me with a tremulous hope. Finally he said, “If anyone ever found out, it would wreck both of our careers.”
“Trust me, I know. Wher
e I’m from, these things look worse for the woman. I have just as much at stake as you do, if not more.”
He was silent for a while. Then he said, “I’m running out of reasons to say no. But I still don’t feel right about this. I need some time to think. I think we both do.”
I knew no amount of time would change how I felt, but I said, “Whatever you need.”
“I’m going for a walk. You should go to bed. If in twenty minutes or so you still feel the way you do right now, switch the light on in your tent. If I can, I’ll join you.”
He reached out to brush his fingers lightly across my forehead in what was clearly a caress, although it wasn’t one I’d seen before. Then he rose and walked away. I watched him until he was no more than a dark silhouette far down on the moonlit beach. I knew better than to go after him. I had been living with this particular quandary for six months, while he had had about six minutes with it. I couldn’t make the decision for him. I wouldn’t force his hand. I got up, shook out my sleeping bag, and found a level place out of the wind to lay it out flat. I fetched my tent from my backpack and set it up with the field at full expansion, plenty of room to shelter us both if it came to that. I went through the motions of getting ready for bed, observing with clinical calm that my hands were trembling. When I judged that ten minutes had passed, I switched on the illumination, limning the tent field in shimmering blue light where it touched the ground. I left the field itself transparent. Then I lay down on my sleeping bag to look up at the stars and wait.
It was close to twenty minutes later, not ten, when I heard soft footsteps coming up the slope from the beach. I sat up. Hathan reached the crest of the rise and turned unhesitatingly in my direction. When he reached the edge of the tent field, he knelt to turn off the illumination and take off his jacket. I watched, hypnotized by the unhurried grace of his movements. I should have felt awkwardness or apprehension. I felt neither. Desire seethed in me like an ocean, leaving no room for anything else. When his preparations were complete, he paused, and I knew an instant’s irrational terror that he would tell me he’d changed his mind. Instead he said, “You’re sure you want to do this?”
Bright Shards (The Vardeshi Saga Book 2) Page 37