This Shattered World

by Amie Kaufman

  Alexi leans closer. “You look…unsettled. You’re sure you’re fine? No blackouts, no…dreams?” His voice drops for that, as though he doesn’t dare come too near that idea. Doesn’t dare imagine this ordeal will be the one that finally turns the unbreakable Captain Lee Chase into a blank-eyed, violent madwoman.

  “None.” I reach for a smile with dubious success. “You know I never get the dreams, Alexi.” I never get any dreams. I haven’t since I was eight years old. Since Verona.

  “Hey, even you’re human.” Pause. “I think.”

  “Thanks for worrying about me, LT.”

  He opens his mouth, but before he can frame any words, the comms unit clipped to his belt crackles to life, making us both jump. A thick, gravelly voice—I recognize it as Captain Biltmore’s—summons him to the security office.

  Alexi lifts his head, flashing me an apologetic look. “They had us all reporting to other officers while you were…gone. Temporarily. As soon as you’re up again, we’ll be back with you.”

  I don’t bother to hide my smile. Alexi’s one of the few I trust enough to smile at like this, anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ll swallow my jealousy for a day or two.”

  The comms unit crackles again, but Alexi clamps his hand onto the mute button with a grimace. “Make it quick, Captain.”

  I grin as he gets to his feet. Biltmore’s the asshole of the month, and everyone on the base knows it. No wonder Alexi’s anxious for me to get back on my feet.

  Alexi reaches down to lay his palm against my shoulder. “Lee,” he says quietly, his grin fading to something quiet and private and grave. “If you ever do need me, you know I’m here, right?”

  My throat dry, I can only nod.

  Alexi nods back and then slips from the room, shoving his hands in his pockets and dropping into his habitual slouch.

  I exhale slowly, letting my eyes settle on the ceiling. Alexi hasn’t touched me, with the exception of sparring and handshakes, since we first served together on Patron over a year ago. He was the one who taught me I could never under any circumstances become close with someone posted alongside me. Our fling was discovered right after I was promoted, and suddenly every time Alexi got assigned some duty someone else wanted, it was because I was playing favorites, not because I was doing my job.

  Alexi requested a transfer, and then I moved on to Avon with my old captain and the rest of my platoon. No one here knows we ever did more than serve together once—now, he’s simply one of my oldest friends. He’s mine, but only in the way all my guys are.

  Still. Knowing he’s there—my throat tightens. I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could talk to him, to anyone, about the Fianna boy and his talk of peace, so unlike what we’ve always known to be true of the rebels. But not even Alexi would understand why I didn’t take him prisoner to face justice for his crimes.

  Hell, I don’t even understand it myself.

  There’s a hospital gown draped over the back of the chair, but I’m not quite willing to face Commander Towers in a dress that doesn’t close in the back. Still, I push myself up into a seated position with a groan and reach for the laces on my boots. It’s not until I’ve tossed one into the corner and am reaching for the other that something loose shifts inside the lining, and I remember the thing I found half-hidden in the mud on Cormac’s island. With everything that happened—the rebel hideout, McBride, my escape—I’d forgotten it.

  I tug the boot free and upend it. A small rectangular bit of plastic drops out onto the blanket. It’s definitely man-made, covered in foil circuitry on one side. My fingers reach for it and turn it over. The other side’s got a scan bar on it.

  It’s an ident chip. Low-tech, compared to the flashy things we get nowadays, with holovid images of our faces and DNA samples and fingerprints built in. This is one of the models from ten, twenty years ago. Outdated, but simple. Doesn’t require much technology to produce—but the advantage is that it can’t be read without the right scanner. And I’ll bet anything that if I tried to scan it, the identity of its owner would come up encrypted. There’s no telling who this chip belongs to.

  Except it wasn’t a soldier, because we’ve got different chips. And it wasn’t a townie or a rebel, because their genetag IDs are all tattooed on their forearms and verified via DNA scans, so they can’t be forged or lost. This isn’t the tech TerraDyn uses—they have all their own in-house systems.

  It’s someone else. Someone who isn’t supposed to be in TerraDyn’s territory. Another player on Avon.

  Before I have much time to process, there’s a knock at the door. I shove the ident chip deep into my pocket and lift my head. The door swings open, and Commander Towers appears.

  She’s the only other female officer on the base above a lieutenant, but we couldn’t look more different. She’s willowy and lean, with sharply defined features and blond hair she wears in a bun at the nape of her neck. Less experienced than the base commander she replaced four or five months ago, but far more competent. She’s a lifer, like me. We’re the ones who progress quickly through the ranks, who devote our lives to these fights. Most recruits who show up are only passing through, enlisting for a few years to earn enough to start their real careers or go to school, or to see a bit of the galaxy before they settle down somewhere. But with Towers and me, one look is all you need to know we’ll be soldiers until we’re done.

  “Chase,” she greets me, stepping through the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

  I pause, as though considering my answer. “A bit hungry, sir.”

  Her lips twitch into a small smile, and then she sinks down onto the same chair Alexi occupied a few moments before. Though instead of dropping into it heavily, she alights on the edge, hands folded over her knees.

  “You know why I’m here. We need to know what happened out there, Captain. Are you up to talking about it?” Her tone makes it clear she isn’t really asking me. This debrief is happening now, whether I want it to or not.

  Truthfully, I still feel as though I’m being squeezed through flat rollers, stretched out and held to a hot iron. My ribs itch and throb as the fractures knit in response to the medics’ treatment. Every movement makes my head ache with exhaustion, and all I want to do is go to sleep.

  “I’m fine, sir,” I say instead of the truth. This, at least, is a lie I can deal with. “Truly. No long-lasting trauma.” Except, you know, going mad in the swamp and seeing a secret facility that’s no longer there.

  The commander nods, her posture relaxing a fraction. “In that case, we can handle the official debrief process now.” She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a recorder about the size of her index finger and snapping the top open so the green recording light flashes at me. She sets it down on the medicine cabinet beside my bed. “Debrief interview, post-incident with Captain Jubilee Chase, recording for transcript by TD-Alpha Base senior officer, Commander Antje Towers. Galactic date code 080449. Let’s begin, Captain. Can you tell me what you remember, starting from the beginning?”

  I take a slow breath, testing the point at which my healing ribs twinge. A boy named Flynn Cormac abducted me and then saved my life and let me go again. I think of the first moment I saw him in Molly’s, nursing his beer and watching me in the mirror over the bar. My mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

  Commander Towers is studying me expectantly, her fair eyebrows slightly raised, hands still folded over her knees. The clinic is quiet, the silence roaring in my ears.

  Then, a strange voice says, “I don’t remember much.”

  I clear my throat, pressing my palms down flat against the blankets. I’m committed now. I’ve lied.

  “There was a guy at Molly Malone’s, and he had a gun. It all happened so fast, I didn’t get a good look at his face. He knocked me out when we got outside.”

  “Tell me what you do remember about him. Young or old? Strong or weak? Any dominant racial traits?”

  “Strong,” I say, picking the most harmless of the questions to answer.r />
  “Did you learn anything at all about who he was?”

  My stomach lurches. If I tell her that Orla Cormac’s brother is out there, alive and among the Fianna, they’ll never stop searching for him. “Not really, no.” My voice sounds steady. “He and the others were careful not to use names.”

  “Is the one who took you responsible for your injuries?”

  My gaze wants to drag itself across to the winking green light on the recorder, waiting to catch me out. I force myself to focus on Commander Towers. “No, that was later. I think I was in a cave. One of them beat me.” I move my arm so I can rest my hand briefly over my ribs. “They kept me a few days, until they decided for some reason to move me. I figured that was my only chance, and I got the jump on the guys escorting me. Stole a boat, managed to get it most of the way back before it ran out of gas, and I walked the rest of the way.”

  “Slow down. Is the cave the next location you remember?” Her gaze is intent. “Take me through it chronologically.”

  My head’s aching, and it feels like wading through syrup as I rifle through the options. Every lie I tell carries me deeper, makes it harder to think of all the ways they might be able to catch me. They might have had a visual on his boat leaving and know which way we went. This is what I get for lying for a rebel. “No, before we went to the cave he took me east.”

  “Did he say why?” Now she shifts her weight forward in her chair, and I know I’m not imagining the fact that she’s more alert, focused on the smallest shift in my face.

  I try to shrug, and my ribs send a lance of pain up my side to protest that idea. “He thought there was some kind of military installation out that way, but I didn’t know of any.”

  The risk of what I’m about to do makes my head spin like I’m doing an air-drop without a chute. But if there’s even a chance she’ll answer the questions churning in my brain, I have to take the leap. “Though my platoon’s never been assigned patrol in that sector—maybe there is something out there that I didn’t know about.” I can almost feel that ident chip in my pocket, burning a hole against my thigh.

  Commander Towers hasn’t moved, eyes still on my face. I school my expression, trying to remember what polite inquiry would look like. Am I too blank? Should I raise my brows? Smile? My heartbeat is too loud, and I’m nearly as dizzy as I was when I collapsed on the island. The moment stretches into an eternity, me gazing at my commander and her gazing back.

  Abruptly she reaches out for the recorder, switching it off but keeping her eyes on her fingers.

  My heart stops; she’s caught me. She’s turning off the recorder because she’s about to call for security to haul me down to lockup. “Commander—”

  Her head snaps up, lips twisting into what’s clearly meant to be a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Captain. I’ve heard enough.”

  I blink, trying to sit up despite the dull, painful protest of my ribs. “But the rest of my account?”

  She gives the recorder a little shake, her half smile turning wry. “There’s enough here to satisfy the higher-ups. You need rest more than you need a debrief.” Her cheek twitches minutely, a sign her jaw’s carrying some tension. “Rest up, Chase. We need you back.”

  I ought to feel relieved. No more questions, no more chance my actions will be discovered. But Commander Towers has been here nearly as long as I have, and I know her well enough to see she’s troubled.

  She misinterprets my expression and reaches out to lay her hand on mine. Her skin is cool and dry, and I know she’s going to feel the flush of betrayal and lies the moment she touches me. But instead she just gazes at me. “You did good, Lee. I don’t think most soldiers would’ve made it back. Take some time off, get yourself together—and then get back to work.”

  When she’s gone, I let myself melt back against the cot, trying to find a comfortable position, listening to the fibers creak as if in answer to my creaky ribs. I can’t remember the last time I disobeyed orders, much less outright lied to my commanding officer. And yet, I’m not the only one. It can’t be a coincidence Commander Towers shut down my debrief when I mentioned the sector to the east.

  But believing that would mean believing Cormac’s insane conspiracy theories. Might mean believing I actually saw more than a hallucination in the moments before passing out.

  My thoughts turn in frantic circles, the room spinning away around me as though all laws of gravity and physics have abandoned me along with my principles.

  I can’t afford to lie here, letting uncertainty overpower me. Captain Lee Chase doesn’t get confused. She doesn’t hesitate, she doesn’t think twice.

  I force myself upright again, swinging my legs over the edge of the cot and swallowing down the nausea pushing bile up in my throat and making it burn.

  A light breeze wafts in through the window, carrying with it the earthy, peat-sulfur smell of the swamp. One nice thing about Avon: it’s too young to have a thriving insect population. No screens on the windows. The hospital is more centrally located, but I’m in a halfway house, one of the temporary buildings erected to deal with the greater numbers of minor illnesses and collapses that afflict newcomers to this environment. On this side of the building, the small, square windows overlook the swamp, only the perimeter fence between it and the wilderness.

  I find myself straining to pick up the scent of rock and damp that pervaded the rebels’ underground cave system. All I want is for everything to get back to normal. Hopefully I’ll never see Flynn Cormac again—because if I do, it’ll probably be on the other end of the barrel of my Gleidel.

  It’s a few days before the medics clear me to leave the base, and though my ribs still ache a little, that’s not enough for me to stay cooped up. I’m not quite ready to go back to Molly’s yet, so instead I’m walking down this town’s sorry excuse for a main drag with a few of my platoon.

  There’s not much to do on the base; our comms aren’t much better than the ones the rebels have cobbled together out in the swamps. The HV signals are so bad, it’s not worth watching unless you’re truly desperate and willing to watch shows that are ninety percent static. We have retransmission satellites for official business, but unless Towers is in an uncommonly good mood, we never get to use them for anything as basic as entertainment.

  But it’s a nice night for a walk. As nice as any on Avon ever is. The air is still close and cold, clammy with damp. There’s no fog, so the meager lights along the packed-dirt road disperse most of the shadows.

  It’s always sobering to go into town, though. Caught between the military enforcing TerraDyn’s claim to the land here and the rebels protesting the conditions, the townspeople bear the brunt of the strict rules and curfews. Most of them work in the algae swamps or as surveyors of the surrounding ecosystems—necessary work if Avon’s ever going to stabilize and support life on its own. But as many rebels as there are living out in the swamp, there are plenty of sympathizers living quietly here in town. And all it takes for a sympathizer to become a rebel is one irresistible opportunity.

  Things have been quieter since the ceasefire started a few months ago, but even though we’re off duty, we can’t relax, not completely. We have to watch every passerby and monitor every shift in the air. And, knowing how close the Fianna are to open rebellion, I’m more jumpy than anyone.

  I’m sure the walk was Alexi’s idea. He and Mori showed up at my door after I left the mess hall. Of everyone, I think he suspects most that I’m not being honest about what happened to me out in the swamp. But he can’t know the truth. He’s being careful, keeping me close. My ribs are healing well, and thanks to the boosters the medics gave me, the bruising’s almost completely gone. But it’s not the visible wounds and symptoms that Alexi’s worried about. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

  I try my best to show him I’m okay. Mori’s telling some wildly inappropriate joke that’s so offensive to everyone involved—officers, terra-trash, and more racial groups than I can count—that it goes straight th
rough offensive and out the other side. I laugh and threaten to make her clean latrines for a week, then climb up and walk along a fence post for a few yards. I jump down again as soon as I can, though. Still too dizzy for that. Still too unsettled.

  Most of the buildings in town are residences, some of which have had their front rooms converted into shops or trade rooms of varying kinds. We’re headed for this one house where the husband will take folks’ grain allotments and give them baked goods back in return. We’ll trade some of the military ration bars for some of the locals’ homemade bread. The bread tastes a little like the swamp, but eat enough decade-old shelf-stable meals at the mess and you’re willing to put up with some swamp in your bread.

  We round the corner of the house and Alexi collides headlong with someone. They both go stumbling back, but the other guy recovers first, rocking forward on the balls of his feet.

  “Watch it!” He’s not much older than we are, but his face bears as many scars as any soldier.

  “Hey, man, sorry.” Alexi’s quiet, calm. He’s the best man possible in a crisis. “Didn’t see you. Where you headed?”

  “Like I have to tell you?” There are people like this all over the place on Avon. They were all over Verona, too. Angry about everything and willing to take it out on whoever comes through their line of sight. The ceasefire between the military and the rebels doesn’t mean the townies like us any better.

  Mori steps forward, putting herself between Alexi and the kid. “Actually, you do.” Mori’s not big, but she’s strong and competent, and in this moment, she looks it. She casually rests her hand on her holster, where her Gleidel sits. “Curfew’s in half an hour.”

  The boy spits to the left of Mori’s shoe. “You’re just gonna have to wonder, trodaire.” The way he throws the word at her is more biting than any insult.

  “Let’s go,” Alexi suggests with a roll of his eyes. “If we want bread, we’ve gotta scramble.”