by Kit Rocha
“I don’t hate people. It’s not in my programming, remember?”
Cruz scrubbed his hand over his face. “You didn’t see him during the war, not until that last battle. But before that he was...unhinged. Halfway to insane. And he came to me at one point and asked where you were. He wanted to take you to a safe house and hide you.”
“I know.” She’d spent too many quiet moments trying to imagine it. First, as a place filled with all sorts of things Ashwin knew she would like, and later as a utilitarian prison, because it felt like maybe he didn’t know her at all.
“I shot him. That’s how badly he scared me. I wasn’t sure I was going to get out of the situation alive, but then I told him…” He took a deep breath and met her eyes. “I told him that fear hurts. And that if he tried to take you anywhere in that emotional state, he’d hurt you.”
Now she understood the angry thread of self-blame running through his words. “It wasn’t your fault. All you’re guilty of is believing that what everyone told you was true.”
“Do you still think that everything they told us was wrong?”
That was the real question, wasn’t it? “I want to,” she confessed. “But that’s the problem. I’m not sure if I really believe I was right, or if I just need it too much.”
“It’s never easy to be sure.” He leaned back in his chair. “When I got together with Rachel the first time, I was all twisted up inside. All the shit the Base and Eden had taught me about sex was fucked up. I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just didn’t know how not to hurt her. Still made it my fault. And I didn’t mean to freak Ashwin out so bad he ran back to the Base for six months of recalibration. I didn’t even know I could freak him out. Still makes it my fault.”
It was a hopelessly tangled, snarled mess, and she could go around and around forever, trying to figure out what it all meant. Either Ashwin had made a mistake, one that would never happen again—not only because the situation was so unique, but because he had learned from it—or she’d spent the last few years of her life in complete, utter denial of reality.
She knew which option she preferred. But she didn’t know if she could trust herself anymore.
Maybe she didn’t have to, not yet. “What about you? Do you think everything they told you was wrong?”
“About me? I know they were wrong. About Ashwin?” Cruz lifted both hands. “He’d be the first to tell you that he makes the efficient, expedient choices. But if you watch him... He doesn’t know how to care about people, but he tries. Sometimes by getting himself tortured, sometimes by hiding secrets. Sometimes by committing espionage and high treason. And even knowing that, I can’t tell you to be the one to teach him, Kora. Whoever takes that on might be in for a lifetime of accidental hurt, however good his intentions.”
It was the same thing she’d discussed with Maricela and Del the day she’d gotten her tattoo. An old question, one she was no closer to answering. But she was starting to think the real question wasn’t whether Ashwin would hurt her or not, but whether what came between the hurts was worth it. If he was worth it.
And that answer was always, always yes.
»»» § «««
By nightfall, Ashwin was missing the respectful terror he was shown on the Base.
Lie.
It was a lie, but not a large one. Every hour that ticked by without an update on Kora cranked the tension in his muscles tighter. Worse, gossip and rumor seemed to work far more efficiently here than on the Base. He got a few angry glares from servants who were particularly protective of Kora, but the Riders had rallied around him with such aggressive hope and relentless support that he found himself incapable of processing it.
Kora would have helped. A few minutes, even a few seconds. Just seeing her. Resting his head in her lap as she stroked his hair and performed whatever magic it was that eased the rawness that came with feeling too much. Or feeling at all.
But Kora was far away, and the Riders weren’t helping.
They were trying. Reyes had offered to punch him again, and the exhausting sparring session had left Ashwin sufficiently bruised. Unfortunately, his brain had too many lingering connections between Kora and pain. What should have been satisfying only left him more on edge.
Bishop and Gabe tried to talk to him. Zeke brought him dinner from what he claimed was the best taco vendor in the sector, then expounded on how he’d chosen the top five until Ashwin ate the tacos just to make him stop. Ana mostly glared at him, which Ashwin appreciated. He liked knowing someone was firmly on Kora’s side.
Even Ivan made an overture, abrupt and surly, plopping an impressive collection of firearms onto the table in front of Ashwin to ask for his help cleaning them. It was a soothing ritual, with the familiar scent of gun oil and the rhythmic click of pieces sliding apart and back together.
But Ashwin could clean a gun in his sleep. It left his brain far too free to run through all the possible complications from Kora’s procedure, all the ways she might still be in danger.
All the ways he couldn’t protect her if she wouldn’t see him anymore.
Deacon was the one who handed him an ice-cold beer, then dropped down beside him. “I wonder when the shit’s gonna hit the fan.”
Ashwin drained half of the beer, enjoying the chill bitterness. An acquired taste, but one he was starting to appreciate. “Which shit. Which fan.”
“The big one. On both counts.” Deacon eyed him balefully. “Orders aren’t written in stone. You got out of that compound today with no holes in you because it wasn’t the big showdown. Just a move in the middle of the game.”
Ashwin rubbed his thumb over the cool glass of the bottle. “I don’t think it will be soon, not unless there’s another coup. General Wren said something to me today…”
Deacon grunted.
“Did you know Gideon’s grandfather?”
“I never met the man.”
“Neither did I, but I’ve read the files.” Gideon’s grandfather had started his career as the Prophet earnestly enough, preaching a religion of love and compassion to fight back against Eden’s increasingly puritanical strictures. But as his power had increased, no doubt so had the temptation to misuse it.
Ashwin understood the way lies built now, how easy it was to rationalize something you wanted to do anyway. How difficult it was to detect—so difficult that he’d been doing it his whole life while smugly congratulating himself for being too rational to be susceptible to such folly.
“That’s what they’re afraid of,” Ashwin continued quietly. “The refugees are joining Gideon’s religion in massive numbers. His power is about to expand in ways he may not be prepared for. He wouldn’t be the first man to fall victim to temptation.”
“Mmm.” Deacon remained silent for a moment, then waved his bottle in Ashwin’s direction. “You know why I don’t like you?”
“I came here under false pretenses, to potentially harm people you’d sworn to protect?”
“Exactly.” Deacon grinned, but it was the kind of expression that evoked instinctive wariness, not humor. “You remind me of me.”
It was the absolute last thing Ashwin had expected to hear. “I don’t understand.”
“Because you haven’t asked me what I did before I became a Rider. It’s okay—no one does. They all seem to think I was born with an armful of raven tattoos and a list of Gideon’s directives tucked up my ass.” He paused. “I was a mercenary. An assassin sent to murder Gideon. Hired by a man I’d never met.”
The odd emphasis on the words wasn’t an accident. Deacon was too precise. Too strategic.
I never met the man.
Deacon was implying that Gideon’s grandfather had hired him. “What happened?”
“Gideon’s father had taken over running the sector, but he wasn’t very popular. There was...unrest. Half the people wanted the Prophet to come out of retirement, and the other half wanted Gideon to step up.” Again, that chilling grin. “From what I hear, the old man never did like compe
tition.”
No, he wouldn’t have. The psych profile on old Fernando Rios had identified intense narcissistic tendencies. Ashwin had never found that surprising. It took a very particular personality type to pronounce oneself the chosen of God. It took an even more specific type to truly believe it. “I’ve read similar assessments.”
“When Gideon found out, he invited me to finish the job. Said a man of honor always keeps his word, which was just fucking laughable. There was no honor in that. In me.” Deacon tipped his beer back, but the bottle was empty. He cradled it anyway, turning it over in his hands. “I was ready to die. I put the gun in Gideon’s hand myself. Know what he did? He set it down on the table between us and asked me what in this world I considered worth fighting for.”
And Ashwin thought Gideon had been reckless with him. And yet, he couldn’t summon any surprise at the words. He’d been watching the man for weeks, and he couldn’t imagine what a credible psych evaluation of him would look like. One minute he was earnestly humble, a man who didn’t just pretend, but was of the people.
In the next, he gambled his life and the lives of everyone around him on his serene confidence that he could see the truth in another man’s heart—a truth that man denied was even there.
Maybe he could.
All of Ashwin’s equations had shared a similar base assumption: that any claim to be touched by the divine was just that. A claim. Fiction, even if the person believed it so fervently, so completely, that you couldn’t classify it as a lie.
There was no evidence of the existence of any higher power, by God or any other name. But refusing to consider the possibility was as irrational as believing it without evidence. There didn’t need to be a mystical component to his insights. Kora’s genes had been altered in a way that honed her empathy into its own sense, almost as tangible to her as taste or touch.
The capacity was within humanity. Ashwin supposed it didn’t matter if he believed Gideon derived it from a higher power or a mutation of genetics. It only mattered if he believed.
“What did you decide?” Ashwin asked, watching Deacon’s severe expression. “What was worth fighting for?”
“I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know. So he offered me a way to find out.”
“He made me a wager.” Ashwin drained the rest of his beer. “He told me he could make me a believer.”
Deacon grunted again. “Did he?”
Ashwin sidestepped the question with one of his own. “Did you ever figure out what’s worth fighting for?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“So am I.” Ashwin set aside his bottle. “Believe me or not...but you don’t have to worry about me. Unless Gideon does something that endangers Kora, or starts turning into the kind of tyrant who would hire a mercenary to—”
Deacon waved the words away. “Gideon isn’t your problem right now. Neither is the Base, or your orders, or me. You’re the problem. And the solution.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He slapped his hands together, then braced them on his knees. “Kora is Gideon’s sister, and you made her cry. You can fix it, but not for Kora’s sake, and not because you can’t stand to see her cry. You have to fix it because you need to. It’s the only way it works.”
“I don’t know how.” Ashwin laced his fingers together to avoid nervous fidgeting—evidence of how badly he needed to see her. “I can’t stand to see her cry. It’s intolerable. It makes me want to destroy whatever hurt her. How do I fix the problem when I’m the one that keeps hurting her?”
“You don’t listen for shit,” Deacon grumbled. “If you focus on never hurting her, it’s a lost cause. It’s not humanly possible. That’s why the words I’m sorry exist.”
It was so straightforward that it felt like cheating. It wasn’t enough. The hurt he’d done to Kora had been deeper than words. A simple I’m sorry would be like all the times he’d sutured his own wounds in the field, serviceable and adequate, but not enough to heal. It always took more pain—a fresh cut—to open the wound again and avoid any lasting scars.
He could do it, start the hard work of making up for his mistake. But only if she’d see him. “What if she doesn’t want my apologies?”
Deacon shrugged. “You can’t make her. You accept her refusal, you respect it, and you carry on. But there’s only one way to find out.”
“I don’t know if I can carry on.” Ashwin caught himself clutching his knees, and because he was so agitated it was surfacing in telling gestures, he gave Deacon the blunt, horrifying truth. “I don’t know if I’m sane without her. I could destabilize again. I could...become a threat to her.”
“That won’t happen, I promise you.”
“You’ll put a bullet in me?”
“Yeah, I will.” Deacon grimaced. “If I don’t decide to do it anyway because you’re a pain in my ass.”
It was the most affectionate threat Ashwin had ever been issued. Perversely, it eased a little of his internal pressure. Not as effectively as Kora could have, but the itching inside his skin was a prickle now. Like a limb waking up after blood flow was restored.
Fights with Reyes. Glares from Ana. Threats from Deacon. He was actually starting to like the perverse, irrational things that soothed him.
Being irrational made him feel human.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kora had wondered how long Ashwin would wait once she arrived home before coming to see her. If he would come at all. She got her answer while she was still peeling the pressure bandage off her arm.
He’d already been.
It was sitting on her bed, neatly and precisely placed in the very middle, its edges curled and worn, as if it had been handled often. A single manila folder, stuffed thick with pages. And inside, she was certain, were the answers she’d asked for. Demanded.
Part of her didn’t want to open it. But nothing she learned from those pages could be worse than not knowing, so she slid onto the bed and flipped it open.
The words on the first page blurred together. She stared at it until the dark shapes resolved into letters, pictures, numbers.
If you put enough of them together, they told her story.
Her parents never met. They weren’t even alive at the same time—her father died long before the Flares happened, before the lights went out and the world descended into chaos. He stared gravely up at her from an unsmiling photograph, proper and formal in a deep-blue uniform with brass buttons and red piping, his eyes almost hidden beneath the brim of a pristine white hat.
Captain Christopher Thorne. A decorated fighter pilot who had volunteered his DNA to a military study, not a genetic engineering project.
Her mother’s picture looked less formal, like ones they took for personnel files and identification badges. But the mischievous tilt of her mouth and the glimmer in her eyes ruined the stern, professional effect. The papers listed her as Andrea Zellner, a Base engineer assigned to weapons research and development.
She died when Kora was nine years old.
There was more, pages and pages about Project Panacea, protocols and metrics and graphs and charts. But all Kora could focus on were those two names, the ones she’d been searching for her entire life.
Captain Christopher Thorne and Andrea Zellner.
She read the entries over and over, until she’d committed them to memory. The dry, factual information offered only scant glimpses into who these people were, but she could read between the lines, and she did. She read and she wept, rocking gently to ease the pain, until there were no more tears left for her to cry. But she kept rocking and reading, hoping for more than those scant glimpses.
A quick knock rattled the door, followed by Ashwin’s concerned voice. “Kora?”
She tried to answer, but the hoarse sound she made was barely audible, much less intelligible.
She heard the click of the latch and the whisper of his boots. Then he was there, beside the bed, his hand hovering
over her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
Emotion overwhelmed her, scraping at already raw nerves. Looking at him still hurt, like touching a hot pan and then keeping your hand on it instead of jerking away. But she was also relieved that he was there, and that she didn’t have to go through this alone. He was there.
The only words that came were nonsensical. Inane. “I have my father’s chin.”
“You do,” he replied gently, brushing his thumb over it before wiping the tears from her cheeks. “But you have your mother’s nose. And her smile.”
His touch soothed her, but it also dredged up the shame of their fight. “I’m sorry that I jumped to conclusions. You didn’t deserve it. If it helps, I wasn’t doubting you, not really. I was doubting myself.”
“No, Kora—” He caught her face between both hands and tilted it up to his. “I should have told you sooner. And I should have told you better. I should have given you the file to begin with. I was so focused on the threat to you that I chose expediency at the expense of your feelings.”
“I understand that now, with the tracking, but what about before?”
“I’ve asked myself that question. Why. And the only reason I can come up with seems…” he closed his eyes and finished softly, “…insufficient.”
None of this meant anything if she couldn’t understand. “I need it anyway, Ashwin.”
“I don’t like hurting you.” The words all but exploded out of him, rough and intense. “This is a terrible thing to know. I was trained from birth not to be impacted by the knowledge that my eventual fate is emotional destabilization followed by termination. And it’s still...there. It’s always there. That’s why feeling terrifies us so much. Maybe it’s a minor aberration, or maybe it’s my turn to have the Base shoot me in the back of the head.”
She’d been so focused on learning the truth of her origins, but finding out who her parents had been was just a fraction of that truth. Logically, she understood that Panacea had been dismantled because its subjects broke down—lost their control, their stability, their minds—but that didn’t make it any easier to consider that potential fate hers. It was unfathomable. Unthinkable.