Marked

by Jenny Martin

  Bear’s aim takes out two more of the shooters. Only three more gunfire streams coming from the chest-high barricade. Almost there. Almost . . . there.

  Benny’s the first to breach it. He kicks a section of the barricade down. Too close for rifles now. Around me, pistols fire and fists fly. My mind and my reflexes tunnel down for one purpose. Get through this. Protect your people. Keep Cash alive.

  Cash is drained. An IP unloads a hot mess of pulse fire at Bear, but Fahra manages to take out the shooter. Bear’s exo-suit is smoking, but he’s still alive and the last IP’s dispatched. Bear stumbles up. He can barely move.

  I call out to him. “Are you hit? Are you okay?”

  He takes a second to catch his breath. “I think my plating’s nearly done for. The load system’s glitching out . . .” An inch at a time, he seems to buckle under the suit. Without the magnetic control, the plating’s a hundred extra pounds of dead weight on his back.

  “You need to punch out,” I tell him. “We can cover you.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

  Our crew kicks aside the last bits of the barricade. They close the blast door behind us. The hall begins to quiet. For now, there are no more guards to fight.

  “How far away is the ship?” I ask Benny. He doesn’t answer. I turn, and he’s kneeling on the ground, someone lying at his feet. I collapse beside the body. A trickle of blood runs from his nose. His suit is powered down, fire-blasted to hell. His hazel eyes blink, unfocused.

  Hank.

  “He’s in a bad way, kid,” Benny says. “Took one shot too many.”

  Hank coughs, then closes his eyes. Another rasp, then nothing. My clinic training kicks in, and I check for a pulse. It’s weak, but still there. He’s barely breathing. I look up at Bear.

  He moves in to lift Hank’s body, but Benny shakes his head.

  Together, he and the crew shoulder Hank’s weight. “It is not far to the ship,” Fahra says. He glances back. “Perhaps a hundred more yards.”

  We follow. Another stretch of silent hallway, past the sealed command center, then a double set of blast doors. We open them and step into a bay, one much smaller than the main landing area. Lined up against the walls, there are many small capsules, about the same size as the simulators at flight control.

  “Escape pods,” Benny says. He tilts his head toward a few empty spots between capsules. “Looks like a few prisoners already lit out of here.”

  The room begins to shake. Debris rattles against the floor, and I feel a change in gravity, something only my stomach recognizes. “Hurry,” Bear says. He runs toward the opposite blast doors and punches them open. The doors lead to the landing bay, where our ship is waiting. Where our ship is firing.

  Benroyal’s remaining guards are in the bay. They’re trying to take out the ship, but Benny’s crew is firing back. I spy Miyu among them, manning one of the turrets. Boom. Boom. Another violent shake. The cannons are taking the station apart.

  Bodies litter the bay’s floor, like fallen chess pieces on a scorched and bloodied board. There are maybe forty or fifty IP gassed asleep, some gutted by cannon blast. The handful left standing finally begin to retreat. Thank the stars, they don’t see us. They take the opposite way.

  “Go, go, go!” Bear yells, and the team obeys. Ducking low, Fahra takes Cash while Benny and his men carry Hank and hustle him back to the freighter. Miyu must see them too, because her barrels swivel away, then adjust. She lays down a line of fire, behind them, to cover their run.

  There’s no more time to waste. We have got to get out of here.

  Just as I take Bear’s hand, there’s a crushing volley of cannon fire. An explosion at the other end of the bay, and the station groans. We rise, shuddering into the air, as the gravity systems begin to fail. Weightless and stranded, we launch ourselves from the threshold of the small bay. I hear the snap of a smaller round. Pulse fire. I glance behind, and a lone IP’s lunging for Bear. “Bear!” I scream. Weightless, he spirals just in time. He grapples with the exo-armored soldier.

  Frantic, I reach for Benny’s pistol. The cannons swing in our direction, but hesitate. Miyu must realize she can’t hit the IP without hitting Bear. Bear and the soldier hurtle through air, spinning and twisting and fighting. Over and over, the guard tries to raise his right weapon’s port in my direction, but Bear keeps knocking it up. Pulse fire sizzles over my head.

  I level the rattler. I squint and aim. I take a breath and aim again, waiting for just the right moment. One shot. The bullet rips into the IP’s gut. He tries to cling to Bear, but Bear shakes him off. I try rotating toward them, but with nothing to propel me, I’m painfully slow.

  We’re jerked sideways as a tremor runs through the bay. The station is failing fast.

  The shift nudges me toward Bear. I’m almost there, when I see it from the corner of my eye. The wounded IP drifts behind Bear, and he’s already reached into his pack. The soldier has a rattler of his own. And the barrel’s already raised. I scream.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Three shots, and the world shatters like glass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE STATION FALLS APART AROUND US. TIME SEEMS TO expand, and an ocean of seconds fall between Bear and me. The ship is still firing. The wounded IP is hit. The pistol falls from his hand. The soldier’s head lolls and he floats away.

  Moments later, the cannon falls silent. I look around. The battle is dying down. We’re alone, drifting among the weightless corpses.

  I reach for Bear and pull him to me. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I think he’s okay. “Phee . . .” he gasps.

  But then I look down, and see the holes in his plating. The trickle of blood under his breastplate. The space below his heart is weeping. I press my hand over the wound, as if I could make it stop. “You’re all right, Bear. You’re all right.” I say it and say it and say it. I can make it so.

  “Phee,” he says again. Slowly, he reaches for his pack and grabs something from inside it. He holds it in his hand.

  Voices are calling to me, but I can’t really hear them. Because I’m looking at Bear, and the quiet in his eyes drowns out everything else.

  Bear rakes his fist over his heart. I won’t let go. I’m just going to stay here. We can stay here forever. Just for tonight. Just for now. It’s enough.

  This is our always.

  “Take it,” Bear says. He’s trying to put something in my hand. It’s smooth and small. Without thinking, I palm it. I have so much to tell him, but I can’t break the quiet, where our always still lives. Far away, I hear an engine.

  “You have to go.” He sighs. “Phee . . . I can’t go with you.”

  And that’s when it’s finally real: He’s dying.

  “No,” I choke, shaking my head. “You can’t leave, Bear. I won’t let you. You can’t.”

  His breathing grows more rapid and shallow. He pulls me tight, and for a moment, I think he’s trying to keep me for good. But then he whispers in my ear, and with one final force of will, he pushes me away, as hard as he can. I hurtle backward toward the freighter, half our beacon in my hand.

  I carry his last two words.

  Another life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE BAY QUAKES AS I SAIL BACKWARD. THE SHIFT SENDS Bear flying, far from my reach. Lifeless and drifting, he vanishes into the smoke as I tumble into a pair of strong arms. Hal. He’s tethered to the freighter, and behind us, Benny and Fahra work to reel us in.

  I twist in Hal’s arms. There’s something terrible in his face, in the bright blue shine of his eyes.

  His son’s eyes.

  I bury my head against Hal’s shoulder. When he cries out, the sound sharpens in my chest. In my hand, the little cylinder blinks and blinks and blinks and suddenly, I’m pushing away. No. No. He’s not gone. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. I kick and strugg
le, but Hal won’t let go. Finally, I surrender, and his hold loosens. His strength fails, and broken, he sags against me.

  The shudder in him is the deepest cut of all.

  “Oh god. Phee . . .” he wails. “My son . . . My son.”

  In that moment, part of me disappears. Cleanly bladed, it falls away and follows Bear into the smoke.

  The landing bay groans. The massive doors are gasping open and Benny’s vac is blasting off. On the end of the cord, we’re pulled into the closing mouth of the freighter. Into the ship. Into the darkness. Into Cash’s waiting arms.

  I’m stripped out of my exo and liner. I slip in and out of consciousness, waking up to gravity, to Cash’s body curled around mine in the infirmary, to the sound of engines churning in the dim. He is warm, made of steady heartbeat. Against him, I’m burning up. Every cell smolders into nothing until I black out or fall asleep. I feel it in my lids and limbs. I’m heavy, ready to drift again. I don’t want to wake up anymore.

  “Shhhhhh,” Cash says, his cheek at my shoulder. “Rest now. Stay.”

  Strong arms pull me closer. A hand reaches for mine. I take it, the dead beacon in my other palm.

  There is no end to our tears.

  I wake up a hundred times. Then I wake up for real. In cotton scrubs, under thin sheets, shivering. My lids flutter and my eyes adjust. I’m lying in a berth snug-tight against a wall. Cash is gone. I turn over.

  Hal is sitting beside me; there’s a bio-scanner in his hand. He’s checking my vitals. Gently, my hand closes around his wrist. I can’t quite find words yet.

  “I had to give you something.” He sighs. “Hell, I had to give myself something.”

  I remember how to talk. I remember everything.

  “To get through the trip back,” I say. “To get home.”

  He nods, even though there is no home.

  I nod too. We both start crying. But there’s something else in Hal, even in tears: a hard, bitter edge. It’s like looking at Mary, and I see what we’ve lost. We won’t be the same. Nothing will.

  I force myself to ask. “Is Hank—”

  “He had a stroke,” Hal says. “A pretty good one. But he’s alive.”

  Relieved, I embrace Hal.

  “We landed in Cyan, had him flown to Raupang,” he says, letting go. “We don’t know if he’ll make it. It’s too soon to tell.”

  I let out a breath.

  “Let’s go home,” Hal says. “I’m tired.”

  I don’t ask him where home is. He’s forgotten too. Or like me, in his mind, he’s already burned the place down and is ready for anywhere. Just someplace safe. I take the bio-scanner from Hal’s hands and check his vitals. His blood sugar’s a little low. “Have you eaten?” I ask.

  “No. Have you?”

  “We should eat.”

  He nods. Together, we take care of us.

  It’s early morning. Way too early.

  I missed saying good-bye to Benny. I missed the shuttle boarding, and charging the bridge to Cyan-Bisera, and touching down at Raupang. I even missed saying good-bye to Hank when the medi-vac took him. Delirious and sedated and exhausted, I slept. Cash recuperated. Hal did very little of both. He lies down, but doesn’t rest. He walks around, still asleep. I worry for him, most of all.

  I do remember boarding this boat—a sap-stinking, wave-hovering bluefin hauler. We are running hard now, bound for Nankennan, Queen Napoor’s childhood home. Near the northern coast of Bisera, the little village is still a hotbed of rebel defiance. Like Manjor, Nankennan has no love for Benroyal’s Interstellar Patrol or for Prince Dak, and right now, it’s the only harbor we can sail into without running headlong into the Interstellar Patrol. It’s the best James and Grace could do, and the only place left. From there, we’ll race to Belaram, the capital.

  It’s Coronation Day.

  Miyu walks into my little stateroom. She hands me a stack of clean clothes. On the bottom, a neatly folded bolt of red, a robe for me to wear later. I put it aside and opt for the rest—cargos and a tee, boots, and everything I’ll need. Miyu lays something else on the end of the berth.

  Benny’s pistol.

  “He wanted you to have it,” she says. “Be careful. Still loaded.”

  Gingerly, I pick it up.

  I check the rattler. Three shots left in the chamber. I safety the gun and tuck it into my pack. I get dressed. Tuck my flex into my pocket. I sit down and pull on my boots.

  Miyu sinks next to me as I tug the laces. She doesn’t talk, or throw an arm around me or try to cheer me up. She is quiet, and it’s just what I need. I double-knot the ties on both boots, but what I’m really doing is silently saying, I’m glad you came to the Strand and stayed with us to the last. I’m really, really glad. I stop, and look at her.

  She knows. I’ve learned to read her half smiles.

  My flex buzzes. I take a look. It’s Larken.

  KL: HEARD YOU MADE IT BACK.

  PV: YES

  KL: I ALSO HEARD ABOUT BEAR. I’M SORRY.

  I don’t want to get into it. I’m leaden as it is. It’s an effort just to sit here. I ignore his last reply.

  PV: HOW’S YOUR END? HOLDING GROUND?

  KL: MASSIVE TROOP BUILD-UP. THIRTY THOUSAND IP AT THE BORDER.

  PV: YOU OKAY?

  KL: I’M FINE. NO MOVEMENT YET. EITHER HE’S GETTING READY TO THROW EVERYTHING HE’S GOT AT US, OR HE’S BLUFFING.

  PV: BENROYAL DOESN’T BLUFF.

  KL: I’M NOT EITHER. NEITHER IS THE ARMY AT MY BACK. ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND CYANESE SOLDIERS, FRESH FROM RAUPANG.

  PV: WHAT??? ARE YOU SERIOUS?

  KL: VERY SERIOUS. CYAN’S AWAKE NOW. THEY’RE READY TO FINISH KING CHARLIE, WHATEVER IT TAKES. AND THEY’RE NOT ALONE. SO IS CASTRA, I HEAR. YOU TALKED TO JAMES YET?

  PV: NO. THANK YOU, LARKEN. I OWE YOU ONE.

  KL: BIDRAM ARRAS NOC.

  I put the flex away and look at Miyu. “What’s going on?”

  “Cash is waiting for you,” she says. “I promised I wouldn’t spoil the news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “The best,” Miyu says. “The revolution. It’s begun.”

  Miyu sits with me as I watch the incoming feeds from Castra. I hear my people in every grainy clip. I hear their shouts as they pour into the streets. So many voices, more than ever before. They won’t be quieted this time.

  Larken was right. We’re all awake now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  FIVE MONKS, RED-ROBED AND HOODED, ASCEND THE STEPS OF the palace. They trail the queen’s personal guard, Captain Landalau Fahra. Each of the monks carries a jar of water, drawn from a sacred well, specially blessed for a king’s coronation. The monks are solemnly welcomed. Quickly, they are ushered past soldiers and servants, through the throne room, up the grand stairs, and into the hallway outside the royal chambers. There, they are met by two dozen of the queen’s most loyal guards, and by the doors, they wait to be announced and presented. All are impostors.

  One is an old politician.

  One is a rebellious pilot.

  One is a grieving father.

  One is an exiled prince.

  And one—the last—has been many things. Street racer. Corporate circuit driver. Sixer heiress. Suspected terrorist. A girl who was once fearless, then frightened, and now . . . almost free. Inside the palace, she’s nearly there.

  Not Phoebe.

  Not Phoenix.

  Just me. Phee.

  Behind the next set of doors, Prince Dakesh and Her Majesty are waiting for us, their ceremonial attendants. Along with their servants and advisors, and a couple of special guests—Prime Minister Prejean and, of course, Charles Benroyal. The great peace-maker. Castra’s earnest, forgiving, ever tireless savior.

  Or he was, forty-eight hours ago.

  Fahra steps fo
rward. His men open the doors. They announce us. On the threshold, we wait to be summoned in.

  I scan the chamber. To my left, gauzy curtains sway in the breeze. Morning light shines through the transparent bulletproof barrier between the balcony and the screens and cameras and the teeming crowd. You can hear them—a hundred thousand subjects packed in the courtyards and streets below. A low-level hum, like steady crackle on a faraway feed. To my right, archways to other rooms. My eyes don’t linger there. They’re pulled straight ahead.

  Before us, an empty cistern rests on a pedestal. It’s perched between us and the royal entourage. They stand opposite us, a wall made of splendor. Jeweled fingers and silken gowns and sharp suits shadowed by a few bodyguards and many, many more IP.

  Dak—the preening, would-be king—sits in the middle of it all, trussed up in full regalia. He’s brooding in his gaudy, gilt chair. His mother stands at his right, sober-eyed and subdued, draped in a dark shade of crimson. The look on the queen’s face tells me this day’s something to endure. My gaze slides over her, moving to the man on Dak’s left.

  Benroyal.

  I look at him, then Prince Dak. Their expressions match. I guess news travels fast; looks like today doesn’t taste as sweet as it should.

  Impatient, Dak barks something in his own language, but it’s obvious he’s scorched that we’re late for the party. Hurry up, he’s probably cursing, let’s get through the formalities. Fahra bows to him and steps aside.

  We walk in. One by one, we empty our jars into the cistern. As the scent of balm leaf drifts from the splash, I suck in a breath to savor the fragrance. Holy water to anoint a king. We put the jars down and they ring the pedestal. After, we kneel before Dak’s clumsy throne.

  Cash rises first and pulls off his hood. “Hello, brother,” he says.

  His smirk is sharp as a knife. It carves the glower from Dak’s face, which pales, melting from shock into fear and then anger. Cash’s eyes darken into something far more steely. He jerks his chin at Fahra. Cash’s command comes low and steady. He’s still weak, but he’s not letting it show.