Virology
Page 30
To his relief, the Hornets are all out working as usual, including Gail and EVaC, both recovered, the latter just a little weird, but then he’s also a colony of virads, learning to talk, most of it passing strange and incomprehensible still. The Hornets enjoy being pirates, especially Amiga, who is in today. On Ravi’s orders. Supposed to be resting in fact. Instead, she’s dangling from an ankle brace in the middle of their communal lounge area, swinging to and fro and looking furious in a nest of windblown hair.
“Hey,” he says as he walks in.
Amiga waves. “Close the door would you? Fucking KJ came in for a bevvy and left it open. I’ve been waiting ages for someone to come and fucking close it for me.”
Hard to shut a door without showing a hugely perceptive Cleaner how hard he finds it to do stuff. It leaves him irritated, as well as desperate to get warm. “You couldn’t get down and close it yourself?”
She looks at him like he’s gone off the wrong side of crazy. “You shitting me? You have any idea of the gymnastics it takes to get into these things alone?” She waggles a foot, jingling the buckles on the brace cuffs.
“Why exactly are you upside down?” he asks, because that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever seen apart from himself about twenty minutes ago. “Have you been there all morning? Not sure that’s advisable with your damn ribs needing to heal.”
Amiga bends round and lifts the edge of her t-shirt from around her middle, revealing skin marred by a torque of angry red surrounded by the dullest of bruises, tinges of yellow and green spread out in a stain. The bruising, and the cracked ribs beneath, are a recent addition from jaunting off to do stupid shit with Petrie every time the Res hits a shard range or encounters a hostile ship.
“It’s not hurting at all,” she says. “I can’t be bothered to keep resting. Besides, I believe this is something of a pot and kettle moment. I don’t see you following anyone’s damned advice either. Why are you wet, by the way?” She raises a brow, the single eye he can see through the mess of her hair glinting sardonically.
He looks down at his feet, purposefully avoiding that aggravating eye. Snaps, “The cross ploughed up a wave.”
“On the sides again!” Amiga applauds. “Bravo, dumbass. Maybe I should tell Ravi about this? You know how he feels about you getting that head wound near salt water until he’s happy it’s all peachy keen and good to go.”
“If you rat me out, I’m telling Ravi and Deuce about you jaunting off with Petrie tomorrow,” he counters.
Amiga folds her arms. She looks dangerous. This is not unusual. “Maybe we should agree to keep each other’s secrets hanging over each other’s heads in perpetuity.”
“Maybe we should.”
She points over to the large open doors at the end of the lounge opening on to their deck, which currently holds two or three lines of laundry blowing in the breeze.
“Towel over there, baegchi Pao.”
He tries not to crack a smile, but he loves it when she busts out the Korean. “Thanks but no, seong-gasin, Tanaka, I’m not going to dry off, I’m going to shower and change.”
“Wimp.”
“Next time we’re on the walkway, I’m pushing you overboard.”
She offers him a needling smirk he wants to rip off her face and stamp on. “Geojismal jaeng-i. You don’t fool me. I see you, paralysis and all. You’d only drown your idiot self.”
The eyes on her. Clinical. Fucking scalpels. Why did he think she wouldn’t see? Why did he imagine she’d treat him any differently? She’s Amiga after all. “Fuck you.”
“Ugh. For real. Go get dry so I can vomit over that image in private.”
Flipping her an embarrassingly unsteady bird, thank you very much hands, you bastards, he walks away, forcing his persistent fucking grin down like bad medicine. Whatever goes wrong in the world, whatever goes wrong inside of him, it would appear there are things he can count on. Absolutes. Irrevocable truths that can’t be rewritten by anyone.
He’ll hold on to them. Hard. They’ll be the lock holding him together, the key to everything he is and wants to be. The reason why, when it comes down to it, if it comes down to it, he’ll place himself on the front line without thinking and risk everything he is to protect them. Again. Always. Without hesitation. No matter how little of him is left in the end.
Even if it’s nothing.
Acknowledgments
For yanking me back when I went waaay off piste and making me write the book this deserved to be (and for general freaking awesomeness), my editors: Cath, who made like superwoman and had a baby halfway through. And Cat, who swooped in heroically and knocked editing my word spew right out of the park. Literally the best.
To my agent Jen, for oh… just about ever’thang. You rock.
Hugest of hollers to Anne Mhairi and Colin, the best sounding walls and pep talkers in the Wild West. You guys helped me stay sane. Cannot thank you enough.
And finally, the spawn, again… my Musketeers, my posse, my merry pranksters. We can totally go on holiday now. Promise.
About The Author
Ren Warom lives in the West Midlands with her three children, innumerable cats, a very friendly corn snake, and far, far too many books. She haunts Twitter as @RenWarom, and can be found on her YouTube channel, talking about mental health issues and, of course, books.