Marked (19 page)

The war room seems to expand, filled with rapid talk.

“But our work won't end there,” James says. “Once this gets out, Castra will boil over. We're counting on every ally we still have there to help redirect the chaos. We've already got one Sixer company on our side, Yamada-Maddox, and we're hoping at least one more will follow.”

Another rebel speaks up. “You won't be able to control
this. Think of Capitoline. This'll tear the city apart.”

Around the table, others chime in. I catch snatches of conversation.

“—mobs in the street.
”

“Blood on our hands—”

“
—
no way to contain the violence
.
”

James reins everyone back in. “Yes, it's a gamble. There will be riots. But this time we're planning something greater—a widespread, organized response. And once the message is out there, the soldiers won't be able to contain it. Even the Domestic Patrol will waver. Many of them believe in what they do and simply don't know the truth. Once they do, I believe they will come to our aid.”

Belach cuts in. “If you're betting on their good nature—”

“No, we're betting on
human
nature,” James says. “We're out of time. The people have to know. After that, it's up to them.”

“And it's up to us,” I say. “Bisera needs our help too. We have a plan to rescue Cash, just before the network attack. We'll only have a short window to save him, so we'll work quickly. If he's still Benroyal's hostage once everything hits the feeds, he's dead. But we're going to try. If the people see Cash is alive, they won't accept Dak's rule.”

“And what about us?” Belach asks. “What about the Strand?”

“The Strand is the last front,” I say. “Benroyal is poised for battle. At any moment, he may attack. Here, we'll make our final stand.” Unblinking, I sweep the room one last time. “If you're still with us, stay. If not, find a transport west, to Cyan. Your choice. It's no tread off my wheels either way.”

At first, nothing. But then the first crisp flutter of movement, as the first rebel steps forward. Then another, and another and another, until we're standing inside something new. An impossible home surrounds me—every wall built strong, made of clear-eyed, straight-backed rebels. At last, the words come. They curl like a closing fist. A hundred fists, held over fast-beating hearts.

Bidram arras noc.

Someone calls from the war-room doorway. From my chest, the voice pulls a deep sigh of relief.

“Cash's rescue mission. I volunteer,” he says.

I look up. It's Bear.

EVERYONE'S ALL IN. NO ONE EVEN MAKES A MOVE FOR THE
exit until Nandan dismisses them. Even then, countless soldiers check in at the table, pledging to stay and hold the Strand, no matter the odds.

Walking in, I had been prepared to go it alone, or to manage with a handful of stalwarts. But now we're a hundred strong, no matter what the Skal decides to do. It may not equal an army, but on the heels of our darkest hour, it feels like a miracle.

Now the room's mostly cleared out. Bear asks me to meet him after I'm finished.

James and I tidy up while Miyu says good-bye to Moira.

“You okay?” James asks me.

“I think so. Everything went well, right?”

“I didn't mean that. I meant . . .” He eyes the doorway, where Bear was just standing. “Is everything
else
all right?”

“We're . . .” I nod, course-correcting my answer. “I'm fine.”

James raises an eyebrow but doesn't press. Instead he slips beside me and pulls a flex card from his pocket. “I need to show you something.”

“What is it?” I ask.

He swipes the card against the table to sync an image. “Just take a look.”

I glance down at the screen. The picture, it's . . .

“Amazing,” I say aloud. And it is.

A flame-tailed phoenix glides in the sky, one wing spread against the wind and the other curled around a constellation. Four stars—one red, one silver, one gold, one white.

“You had this made,” I say. “For me?”

“It's an emblem. It seemed . . . right. She's soaring against the storm,” he adds. “Part of her's always flying. But see the way she shields her own?”

And then I catch on. The artist gathered stars from our own banners. The red star for Bisera. Silver for Cyan. Gold for my home, for the sun-gilt flag of Castra. “Why the white star?” I ask.

“Maybe I picked that one for Earth.” He shrugs, his grin buttoned up and lopsided. “Or maybe for peace. Or . . . okay, I admit it. I just like the symmetry.”

Without thinking, I reach for my shoulder, the right blade where Benroyal's racing logo is still etched. The driver's mark is ugly and scarred; the phoenix crest is cleaved in two. I still remember the finish line wreck, the one that left my ribs bruised and my shoulder slashed. Benroyal's doctors wanted to fix the mark, but I wouldn't have it. For me, it wouldn't matter if they stitched or rebranded; the cut would always be there.

I look at the phoenix on the screen, and it's as if the artist plucked her unscathed from my skin. I trace a forefinger over the bird, from the fire-lit feathers to the small ring of stars.

James leans over the image, as if inspecting it one last time. “It'll go out with Moira's message, like a watermark, embedded in all the files and tagged on every image. Every revolution needs a symbol, you know. So what do you think of ours?” he asks, looking up. “Do you like it?”

My hand drifts from the screen and curls at my chest; the heartbeat I find there is both mine and the bird's. I smile. “It's perfect.”

I look for Bear, but he's not anywhere in the tomb. Hank tells me he's already off duty for the night, so I walk down to Flight Control. He's there, alone.

In the doorway, I watch him as he hauls a bundle of
parachute to the center of the room, then billows it out. The silky chute flutters and undulates before coming to rest. Carefully, Bear walks its perimeter, spreading the cloth for inspection. If there's any fault or tear, he'll find it. And he does find something, sure enough. I'm too far away to see the rip, but he seems to consider it, as if he's not sure it's worth repairing. He sighs. With a shake of his head, he walks to the other end of the chute. He pulls out a knife to cut something small from its edge.

Whatever he's taken from it, he tosses it aside.

I walk to him. “You asked me to come.”

Looking up, he nods, then puts away the blade.

“Repacking chutes?” I ask.

Another nod.

I tilt my chin at the one on the floor. “This one's no good?”

“Nope,” he says.

“What'd you take from it?”

“Oh,” he says, then reaches into the pile of metal rods near his feet. They're tiny, polished Pallurium cylinders, about two inches long. He picks one up and hands it to me. The coppery tang of battle still clings to it. “These? They're just beacons. Every chute has them. They stitch a few into the edges, to aid in search and rescue.”

He takes the one in my hand and snaps it in two.
Apart, both ends blink. “See? If you jump in somewhere and lose your bearings, you just take one half with you and leave one half with the chute. Each piece transmits its location to the other. Doesn't matter if you're six miles away or six thousand. The power cells on these things are damn near infinite, and the range is almost as good. If one half's anywhere on the planet, the other will find it.” He snaps the pieces back together, and the light grows steady, then dies.

“That way,” Bear adds, “when your squad comes to get you, if you aren't with your chute, they know where to go.”

“Pretty handy,” I say.

“Yeah. Even if we trash the chutes, we save the beacons. A lot of pilots keep one on them all the time. One half for themselves, the other for their copilot.”

“Do you?” I ask.

He doesn't answer, but he puts the beacon back into my hand. “Keep it,” he says.

He holds on to the beacon. I wait for him to break it apart, but instead, he closes my fist around it, then suddenly he takes my face in his hands.

Eye to eye we stand, and when I open my mouth to say something, he stops me. “Don't,” he says. “I know what you're going to say.”

“I still—”

“I know you still love him,” he says. “But I know you love me too.”

I nod against the cradle of his fingertips.

“And I know what's going to happen. We're going to rescue him, and when he returns, you'll be with him again, for always.”

“Bear, stop—”

He strains. His voice deepens, thick with refusal. “But I don't care, Phee. Be with me. Be with me just for tonight. Just for now. It's enough.”

Our foreheads touch, and I can feel myself teetering on the edge. Against Bear, I tremble. I could fall so easily, so fast and so far. But if I fall for him tonight, there will be no return. A breath passes between us. His lips brush mine, but I pull away.

“No,” I say. “I can't do this. I can't.”

The boy I used to know would've retreated in anger or silence. But that boy is long gone, and the man before me won't back down so easily. Bear slides his arms around me and knits us together. One hand reaches for mine; he presses my palm to his heart. “Don't tell me you don't feel this.”

I close my eyes and imagine what's next; the future unspools in my mind. He'll bring my hand to his lips and then mark me with kisses under the billowing silk of the
chute. I'll stay with him tonight and tomorrow and forever and always. Always warm. Always happy. Always safe. Always loved.

The only price for our always is a future with Cash.

I see him, even now. The honor in his face. The fire of his touch. Giving him up—it would destroy me. I can't live a life split at the seams, my love torn into pieces. I have only one path; I cannot choose two roads.

I open my eyes and look into Bear's.

He is so close, like a blade at my breast, yet it's agony not to give up and lean in. “I love him, Bear. I can't stop loving him, no matter how long he's gone or how much it hurts. I won't give him up. It's too late for us.”

“No.” He shakes his head and shuts out the truth. “It's not too late. I'm not asking you to choose.”

“You are,” I say, accusing. “There is no just tonight. Just tonight will never be enough. What you're asking me . . . you want me to cut my heart out, and give you the half that's yours. Don't you understand what that will do to us?”

He tries to back away, but I reach out and cradle his jaw. Fire curls in my chest; it burns the tears as they fall from my eyes. “I love you,” I choke, wide-eyed and desperate. I grip him hard, by the scruff of his collar. “Don't you understand? I love you, but that love is tearing me apart.”

When our eyes lock, at last, I watch our always die. It
slips from his sight. He stops fighting, he understands. I let go.

“I love—” he says, before stopping himself.

I stare back, unblinking. “Our love is another life.”

I leave the beacon in his hand.

THE NEXT MORNING, I REPORT TO THE LAUNCH YARD FOR
mission training. I've convinced myself Bear won't be here. He'll back out of the rescue mission and leave word with Hal.

I am wrong.

Bear falls into line right next to me. Side by side, we wait for Captain Nandan. Bear stares straight ahead, but I risk a glance.

“Good morning, Phee,” he says, still avoiding my gaze.

I nod. The rest of the morning he's perfectly cordial, and there's no trace of longing or anger or disappointment in him. As we work with Hank and Fahra, Bear even goes out of his way to help Miyu slip into her exo-suit. I watch the interaction like an outsider, too afraid to interrupt.

“Just pop this lever,” he tells Miyu, punching the left collar plate of her exo, “and your shields lock into place.”

Sure enough, a clear, retractable hood arcs over her head and slips into the gutter of her collar, and suddenly Miyu's self-contained in her own atmosphere, behind the clear flex glass of her helmet and the dull, gunmetal skin of her suit. Lights dance on the visor as her screens read and assess us as friendlies. “Hey-o,” she says. Her voice comes out foggy, as if distilled in a jar. She touches the small weapons port on her forearm. “Is this loaded?”

“No,” Bear says. “Stun guns are disengaged. This suit's not yours anyway. It's just for training. You'll get weapons when you've learned to use them.”

“Mine will have them,” she says, no question.

I catch Bear's sideways glance. Just a flash of pain—a one-second stumble in his gait, and then his gaze is calm. He's taken his loss and quietly put it away. Unlike me, his eyes aren't red-rimmed and he isn't pale with grief.

I straighten and take a deep breath. If he can endure this, so can I. I will make it as easy for him as I can. No more talks. No more bunking together. No more quiet exchanges. Civil and cordial and nothing else. Bear's shown me the way it has to be.

Miyu pops the helmet switch again, and her visor retracts with a hiss. Gingerly, her finger hovers over the opposite
lever, the one on her exo's right collar plate. “What about this one?” she asks.

“Careful,” he answers. “That's the quick-lock. Punch it, and every bit of your plating flies off. You'd be left standing around in nothing but liner.”

She cringes, and I don't blame her. The tight black liners we wear under the suits are like glorified underwear. If underwear were thermo-woven and nearly bulletproof.

“There,” Bear coaches, pointing to a spot a few meters behind her. “Back up, then punch out.”

“Punch out?”
she says.

He nods. “Hit the quick-lock.”

She eases away from us, then manhandles the switch. There's a loud magnetic click as her armor breaks loose from her suit. Clearly repelled by her liner, the plating hovers in the air, and the hang time's unnerving. When Miyu takes a step forward, at last, the spell breaks. My jaw drops as the armor finally clanks to the ground.

Miyu's a little less impressed. “Isn't that a critical design flaw?” she asks Bear. “A switch that leaves you vulnerable?”

“Not necessarily.” He says. “Punch it again.”

She does, and the exo resurrects itself. Bit by bit, the plating flies up and leaps into place over Miyu's liner. Just as quickly as it came off, it all clicks back on. Again I gape,
but Miyu still doesn't look sold. I guess her standards for next-generation exos are higher than mine.

“If I can punch myself out so easily, then so can my enemy.” Miyu asks, “Why would anyone use it?”

Bear's answer is less than patient. “You really want to wear an extra hundred pounds of armor bolted down on your back all the time? You'd prefer a solid exo that doesn't come off so easily? You'd use the quick-lock if the suit malfunctioned, or the power cell was leaking or corrupted, or the plating jammed, or maybe you'd punch out after pulling a double shift, because you just want to get the damn thing off.”

“Oh,” Miyu says. “Good point.”

And after we spend the next six hours in an airless, simulated zero-g freighter hold . . . I can't help but agree. We can't punch out fast enough.

Larken wakes up the day before we launch the rescue mission, thanks to a little stim therapy and a
lot
of anti-gel. The doctors insist he still needs rest, and I only get a few minutes to sit at his bedside in the infirmary. As I walk in, I see I'm not the only one vying for his attention. Larken's propped up, talking into an oversized flex screen.

He sees me, then quickly wraps up his conversation. He signs off and puts the screen down.

I sink into the chair at his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

He ignores my question. “I hear you're leaving soon. The rescue mission.”

I nod.

“Is Hal going with you?” he asks.

“I can't convince him
not
to go.”

“Good. I'm glad. You'll need him. And when you're both out there, trust no one—not completely, at least—but Bear and Miyu and Hank.”

“And Captain Fahra,” I correct.

Larken doesn't quite frown, but he doesn't answer either.

I think of Fahra and the first moment I laid eyes on him in the wellspring abbey. If you'd asked me what I thought of him then, I'd have said he was a cutthroat for hire. But after everything that's happened since Manjor, all the sap we've slogged through together? No, there's no way he'd knife me in the back.

“He saved your life, Larken. You still don't trust him?”

“I'm just saying . . . be careful. I'm not saying he's a traitor, but don't forget: His allegiance isn't to you. It's to his queen, who's now aligned with Benroyal, in case you've forgotten.”

“She doesn't have a choice. She's just protecting Cash.”

He cocks an eyebrow, and lets it go. “Fair enough. Just keep your eyes open, then. That's all I'm asking.”

Again I nod.

“I wish you were going with us,” I say.

“Why? You've already got the rebellion's best on your mission team.”

“Except for you, Commander.”

“I'm no good to you out there,” he says. “You need me here.”

I sigh, sitting back. “We need something, that's for sure.”

“I'll do what I can,” he adds. “Vilette tells me cease-fire negotiations are already under way between Castra and Cyan. But I'll speak to the council. I may be able to slow things down, at least.”

“If that doesn't work . . . if the Skal calls you back to Raupang, what will you do?”

He squints, nursing the faintest smile. “I'll try to convince them I need to stay . . . with a few ‘peace-keeping advisors,' of course.”

“Peace-keeping advisors?”

“Absolutely. You know, it can take a lot of soldiers to tidy up this sort of thing. We'd be very busy, preparing
not
to engage in armed combat. But if the IP happened to show up again at the border . . .” The smile on his face turns into a full-on sap-eating grin. “Maybe we could figure something out.”

“Thank you, Larken,” I say. “For not abandoning us.”

“It's me who should be thanking you. You saved my life, Phee.”

A few seconds pass by, and I don't know what to say. So I settle on the truth. “I'm just glad you're okay. And I had help, you know. If it weren't for the others, who pulled you out—”

“I know. Hal told me.” He pauses. “He also told me you're in therapy. That you've been working hard on Mary's sim, showing up every night.”

“The sim's not that hard to deal with. It's not really the sim at all. Doesn't even raise my pulse anymore. It's the talking part that's hard.”

“Talking with Hal?”

I hesitate, and suddenly, I have to glance around—at the ceiling, at the floor, anywhere but at Larken—just to keep going. “Group counseling.”

His raised eyebrows might as well be question marks, so I add, “Takes the edge off. I don't have to run around so much now. Just as well; it's not like I can hike up to the poppy fields anymore.”

“So it helps.”

I nod. I don't tell him how much it hurts.

“It helps,” I answer quietly.

“I'm glad,” he says. “If it didn't, I wouldn't want you to
go on the rescue mission. I wouldn't think you were ready.”

“I'd still feel better if you were going with us.”

He sits up, until we're eye to eye. “I know. But my place is here, on the line. As for you . . .”

I try to lower my gaze, but he holds it. “You were meant to do this. To go and rescue that prince. So get out of here. I'll stay and hold my ground. You go and hold yours.” Just when I think he's getting too sentimental, he adds, “Like a flock of stinking barden, hold it well.”

One smile, one scrap of laughter, and now it's time to go.

I hope it won't be the last.