Shiv dropped from the branch above, and he started, the sight of the beckoning ground looming in his mind.
“Shit!” he cried. “Don’t do that!”
“Do what?”
“Be so quiet.”
She tilted her head. “Is there another way to be?”
The question was so absurd, it floored him. “Loud and obnoxious?”
“Why would anyone wish to be so?”
“It’s a joke.”
“It is not funny.”
He picked at his boots. “Sorry. A boggin landed on me, and it freaked me out.”
“I heard. And then your hunt leader thrashed you for being careless.”
He stared. “Is that what happened? I thought my mother hit me for no good reason.”
“Your mother and also your hunt leader?” She sucked her teeth. “You should have another hunt leader. Or you should learn to duck her strikes.”
It had never been more apparent that they were two different species, and even though he still desired her, he felt the space between them. “I don’t understand what happened.”
She spread her hands. “One of the trackers said you looked as if you did not wish to fight. You did not watch the battle, and the chanuka nearly killed you.” She touched his wrist. “I am happy it did not.”
“Thanks.”
“And then your hunt leader punished you, and now you will better see the enemy.”
It sounded so simple, but his mother had never hit him before, no matter how much he’d disobeyed her, and there had been more than disappointment in her crazed eyes.
“Why did you come if you did not wish to fight?”
He shrugged. “To see you.”
“Then why did you not stay in the back with me?”
“I…” How could he say he wanted to impress her now that he’d done the opposite?
She stroked his chin. “You did not fight, yet you did not stay back. Then your mother had to save you. Mother and hunt leader, she cares twice whether you live or die, but she has more to tend to in battle than you.”
He thought about his mother’s comment, about not being able to afford losing one, her son or her squad. It’d been a long time since any paladin had been killed, and he knew she felt bad about the researchers who’d died, though she’d never admit it. She never admitted to any feelings but anger and disappointment.
“She’s never cared this much.”
“Has your life ever been in danger before?”
He thought of all the times he’d been beaten up, tried to remember if he’d ever thought it was the end, but no, not until that thing had perched on his head, and he’d seen the drop. The memory came back like a hammer, and even in the armor, he started to shake.
Shiv sat in his lap and folded her long arms around his shoulders. “You have much to learn, but ahya, so do I. All life is folded together, like new soil flowing over old.”
He held her but not too tightly, aware of the strength in his powered limbs. If only he could take it off, hold her for real, but that would piss his mother off more. “I wished her dead once.”
“Truly?”
“Well, maybe not dead but somewhere else, out of my life.”
“Ahya, I know this feeling.”
“Well, a week later, some thief broke her arm, some of her ribs. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, he might have beaten her to death.” He’d been at her bedside, and she’d shamed him into holding back his tears. He’d sneaked out that night, had sex for the first time, an older girl who’d offered to soothe him. He’d forgotten how close those two events were.
“And you think your wishing brought about her injuries?” Shiv asked.
“Not logically, but at the time, I felt so guilty.”
She tilted his chin up and nibbled his lip. “You are not a mind thrower. You do not cause such things to happen.”
“My brain doesn’t always obey logic.”
“Then we will distract it.” She rubbed her cheek against his and whispered in his ear. “My mother tells me some of you will stay in the swamp overnight. Insist on being one of these.” She stood. “And if your hunt leader should strike you again, hit back!”
He stood with her, and they moved to the squads, Shiv taking up her place at the rear of the column. His mother called for them to move, not looking at him, stalking among everyone like a wild animal. Soon after, she called a halt and moved off by herself. After a glance at Liam, Cordelia followed her. Liam sidled close, keeping out of sight.
“Captain?” Cordelia asked.
“Don’t worry, Ross. I’m not losing my mind.”
Liam peeked around a tree. His mother paced up and down a short branch, Cordelia waiting on one end.
“I hit my boy.”
“I know, Captain.”
Liam’s mother nodded, but there were no tears, only an angry look, but maybe she was angry at herself this time. “I keep seeing him in my mind, playing with my helmet when he was four. I had such hopes.”
And he dashed them every chance he got. He clenched a fist and told himself he would not feel guilty for being who he was.
“You know you’ve got the captaincy after me, Ross?”
Cordelia gawked. “What?”
“Going deaf?”
“No, Captain!”
A knot in Liam’s chest loosened. He’d been terrified she’d pick him even though he knew she wouldn’t. Logic again.
“The drushka have requested some of you stay in the swamp overnight,” his mother said. “You’ll be in charge.”
“Captain.”
“I’m guessing my son will stay with you?”
“That…would be his choice, Captain, I’m sure of it.”
His mother paused, and Liam wondered if he should step out. “Fine. Well, come on, Ross. We haven’t got all day. Time to get moving.”
“We’ve only been resting a few minutes, Captain.”
“Move your ass!”
Liam hustled back toward the squads and tried to look as perplexed as everyone else at the shortest rest they’d ever had. His mother had saved him and struck him all in the same day. Maybe it still meant she loved him. He told himself that from now on, he wouldn’t be everything she wanted him to be, but he’d stop rubbing her nose in that fact at every opportunity. They’d never be a storybook family, but maybe they could have an uneasy peace.
*
The stomping feet echoed in B46’s submerged ears. The water hid her from the tall creatures, leaving her eyes and nostrils free, but the tall creatures did not look for her or her children among the floating logs.
Difficult, but she’d managed to gather her children after the tree had attacked them, and then before they were ready, the tall creatures in their shining skins had found her again. Some had to be sacrificed, the children that had watched her eagerly, and it was harder this time. These children had such intelligence, such speed, and such obedience. They looked to her in all things. But if any of them were to survive, some had to die, enough so that the tall creatures would think them all dead. She’d chosen among them, given them their task, and then forced herself to watch and remember.
She shifted away from the moss and logs, her children following as the tall creatures retreated into the distance. She climbed among the branches and found the slaughtered children while her mates gathered those that floated below. She pulled two into her arms, sniffing their carcasses, tasting their wounds and seeing her life without them.
She wanted to howl, but that would bring the tall creatures back. She held them close, their rage stolen from them. But they would not be wasted meat. She called to her mates and her remaining children, called that they should consume their dead kin, absorb their rage. They would have a purpose, even in death. The taste of their flesh would spur her anger, and she would not forget, but for now, she would mourn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lazlo wandered through the temple museum and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The yafanai had
allocated only two small rooms for so much history. They’d enshrined what they could from the original landing: bits of plastic, a small vial of bug spray, shreds of old flight suits, and other bits of flotsam they hadn’t been able to repurpose, all with careful, handwritten labels inside wooden cases.
Samira had steered him here after his interest in Gale’s history, and the first room proved enough of a marvel to keep him busy for hours. It was also empty of people, a good place to hide.
The healer communion had gone well until Dillon had found them and lured Lazlo away. He’d stalked up and down his room, complaining about Captain Carmichael until Lazlo calmed him with power.
Communion had been so soothing, and Lazlo knew he’d sported a relaxed, sleepy look that made Dillon laugh. When Lazlo had spoken of what he’d done, Dillon had gotten excited, asking eager questions.
Lazlo had told him about communing, feeling a warmth between him and Dillon like they’d occasionally had on the Atlas, when Dillon had been interested in what Lazlo could do for no other reason than that it was interesting.
“Do you think you can use this communion to make some of them stronger?” Dillon had asked.
And there went that bubble. Lazlo had railed about tampering with people yet again, after everything that had gone wrong with the boggins, after some of the initial experiments with the yafanai had gone horrifically wrong, too.
But Dillon had persuaded and smiled and rubbed Lazlo’s shoulders. He’d made promises and played on their history. And Lazlo had seen right through that bull, but he’d still melted like wax. In the end, he’d agreed that if some of the yafanai were willing to be stronger, he’d see what he could do.
And if they’d been on the Atlas, he would have gotten to work, but now there were so many places to hide, so many ways to delay. It gave Lazlo a naughty feeling, like hiding from the teacher, and if he could enjoy himself while hiding, well, why not?
It might have been the coward’s way out, but it was a way out, and the museum was a perfect place to lay low. Dillon wouldn’t go into a museum unless forced.
Lazlo wandered into the second room and stopped, his heart thudding. His drawings, his tools, and his ideas shone from every wall. It wasn’t just a shrine to Gale; it was a shrine to him, to the creation of the yafanai.
His carefully drawn brain diagrams hung in elaborately carved frames. Those had come first, along with his drawings of the plants that would become the yafanai-makers. When he’d sent them the refined drug, they’d tried eating it at first, but the results were too unpredictable.
He moved to the next case. For permanent abilities, the drug had to be injected into the brain. The long, thin needles he’d shaped with his power were pressed into the soft red fabric of a display case. He’d designed them to traverse the eye socket or sinus canal. It must have hurt like hell. Still, he ran his fingers over them, remembering the happy hours he’d spent in their meticulous creation. Once the Galeans had a few micro-psychokinetics, the drug could be introduced into the blood and then guided to the brain via power, and there had been no need for the torture devices he’d created, beautiful as they were.
He hadn’t thought of the pain of Gale’s citizens. He’d been happy to be busy, to bask in Dillon’s warm approval. He almost tore the frames from the wall, but he had to face these truths, to look at all he had done, the good and the bad. It would be too easy to lay it all at Dillon’s feet.
He stopped in front of the next drawing, a sketch of an apple tree. He’d done it from memory, but everyone on board the Atlas had excellent memories, a side effect of his treatments. Had he sent the drawing by mistake, or had Dillon grabbed it with the others?
It took him back to the botanical habitat, where he’d grown an apple tree eventually, as well as coffee plants. He’d loved them, but sometimes he’d wanted to get away from them and enjoy their fruits, sitting in the mess hall nursing coffee and staring out the window.
He couldn’t help thinking of one day in particular, when a group of four breachies, Lisa and her three-man harem, had come in while he was alone. They’d smiled at him, said hello, but there was a rudeness about them, as if they were looking for a fight but not daring to actually provoke him. They’d put together trays of food, vegetables he’d grown, and sat at the table in front of the window, blocking the view.
He’d stared into his coffee and listened to their low voices. They sneaked the occasional glance his way and tittered, about what he didn’t know. He’d heard his father’s voice saying he wouldn’t get picked on so much if he didn’t look like such a target, but he didn’t know how to look like anything else.
He almost chucked his lovely cup of coffee and stormed back to his hole. The door opened before he could, and Dillon strode inside, a genuine smile flashing Lazlo’s way. Lisa laughed, and the others shushed her. They glanced at Lazlo again, smirks in place.
Dillon’s stare landed on the breachies, and they fell into silence. He crunched into an apple, his strong jaw working up and down as he strolled toward the breachies and sat, facing them but looking out the window. Their smirks wavered and died.
Dillon leaned back and plopped his size-twelves on their table. They frowned at his boots, at each other, but said nothing. Lazlo had grinned. It still made him smile. He never knew if they were so afraid of Dillon because of his rank, his strength, or the fact that he could turn them into rotisserie chickens.
Or maybe they knew they were outclassed in the bullying game. Dillon didn’t bother to treat them like shit. Worse, he acted as if they weren’t even there. And as they squirmed, Lazlo could tell they were starting to feel as if they weren’t there, either.
Lisa stood, her food barely touched. “I have to go.” She stepped back over the bench and started for the door, but her fork slid off her tray and bounced with a metallic ting on Dillon’s bench.
Lazlo sensed it as she held her breath. All the breachies froze, but Dillon picked up the fork and held it out. As she took it, he slid his index finger over hers, and she blushed like a schoolgirl even though she’d been alive for over a hundred years.
She fled, and the others followed soon after. Dillon didn’t spare them a glance. “Hey, Laz, come look at this view.”
It was a good view, even with Dillon’s big feet in the way.
Someone cleared her throat from the museum doorway.
Lazlo whirled, hand on his chest. “You startled me.”
A young acolyte hurried forward. “I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean—”
He waved her back. “What do you need?”
“It’s the Storm Lord’s new project, sir. They’re ready for you.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The yafanai who want to get stronger? The first one is ready.”
Lazlo shut his eyes and counted to ten. And here he’d thought he could hide, but of course Dillon would just set it up and tell him when they needed him. He could refuse. But Dillon would keep on, carrot and stick, and bring him around again, and he’d end up doing it.
“Enough,” he muttered. The acolyte opened her mouth, but he gestured ahead. “Lead the way.”
She led him to a bedroom where two yafanai waited, one resting in a chair while the other stepped forward.
Lazlo recognized one of the healers, the cute one. “Horace.” He was disappointed but couldn’t say why. “Is it you, or…” He looked to the red-haired woman, someone he hadn’t met.
She arched an eyebrow. “It’s me.”
“My friend Natalya,” Horace said. “Never satisfied.” He gave her an affectionate smile which she barely returned.
“Fine.” Lazlo knew he was angry, knew he should put this off, but better to just get it over with. “I’m going to put you to sleep. Do you want to lie down?” He gestured to the bed in the corner. Other than that, there was just a dresser, and he wondered which of their rooms it was.
“The chair is fine.” She relaxed into its padded embrace. “I’m ready.”
Lazlo
put her into a coma too quickly, but there it was. She was already strong, both a macro and micro-psychokinetic, but she must not have felt strong enough. He knew the feeling.
“Do you mind if I stay and watch?” Horace asked.
“Fine.”
Lazlo found Natalya’s power center and set about expanding it, changing her brain, feeding it as he would a plant.
“Can I help?” Horace asked.
Lazlo was in too deep to answer, but he sensed Horace’s power trying to follow. Lazlo slapped it away. This was already delicate. He didn’t need an amateur fiddling around. He let his concentration slip enough to growl a warning.
Horace said something else, but Natalya mewled, pained at the interruption. Lazlo dug back in, trying to see what the problem was.
“You’re hurting her!” Horace said.
No shit, but Lazlo couldn’t speak, looking for the source of the discomfort and finding her power expanding where he’d set it in motion, synapses in her head rewiring, but it was happening too fast; they needed his guidance. Horace’s power came pushing in again, but the delicacy of this work was beyond him.
Lazlo couldn’t slip again, not enough to tell Horace to get out. He tried to wave the man away, but Horace’s power still crept forward. Stubborn ass. Maybe if Lazlo focused, he could just put Horace to sleep. As he tried, Natalya jerked at them both, lashing out with her ballooning power. She cried out as their abilities entwined as if communing, but her power grabbed and pulled at Horace and Lazlo both.
Lazlo tried to shut her down, to shut the whole thing down, but her panic infected him. Natalya drew him out while Horace tried to push both of them away and made Natalya as strong as quicksand.
As he had the thought, Lazlo felt their confusion, their abilities so far linked that one of them was reading his mind, and he couldn’t have that. He tried to jerk away, but his body was strangely heavy. His eyes were shut, and he commanded them to open to see himself staring down at him.
He cried out, and the vision went hazy, and then he was looking at himself through Horace’s eyes as well as through Natalya’s and his own. His brain tried to process input from three different sources, but they were all shrieking so loud! Stabbing pain chased him through three brains, and he couldn’t tell what belonged to whom.
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