Their Fractured Light
Page 56
“Luckily, Mori’s been siphoning off surplus military supplies,” he murmurs as we walk. “She’s got a dermal regenerator. Your hand should be fine in a day or two—probably won’t even have scars.”
I hate myself for the tang of relief that surges through me—I should bear the pain, the scars, as reminders of what I tried to do. Of what I did do. Of the hundreds of thousands of people in this city dead now, because of me.
“Whoops, hey…” Flynn’s arms tighten around me as I sag, the medication threatening to rob me of consciousness.
“I’m fine,” I reply though gritted teeth, getting my feet back under me. As much as I try to focus, somewhere at the back of my mind, I keep seeing Lilac cry out and fall, keep seeing the blood on her arm, keep seeing the inky darkness bleed into her gaze as she lay on the floor.
The doorway leads to a smaller room, maybe intended to be an individual’s office, with windows on two of the walls. Though they look out only at the buildings next door, the air is hazy and the light a vivid red-orange that makes my heart constrict. I’ve seen too many things on fire not to know what this is. Corinth is burning.
There’s only one other person in the room, and as the glow lights his face, my heart shrivels the rest of the way. It’s Tarver, sunken into a folding chair, eyes fixed out the window. He doesn’t look over when we enter.
Flynn finds a chair for me, hastily depositing me into it and then heading for Jubilee. He glances from her to the ex-soldier by the window. “Is he…”
Jubilee’s expression flickers, and I’m surprised by the depth of emotion I see there, in this face that was always so stony, so implacable, on Avon. “He won’t talk to me,” she murmurs back. “He’s—” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to do.”
Flynn doesn’t answer, instead reaching out to take Jubilee’s hand and draw her close, pressing his forehead to hers. I find myself staring at them as her fingers twine through his, the unlikely sight of Flynn embracing the most notorious soldier we’ve ever had on our part of Avon striking me all but senseless. I knew he had feelings for her, but…
“I can’t help him.” Her voice is barely audible.
“One step at a time,” Flynn replies, with the same patient determination that saw him through the years after his sister was killed.
My gaze slides sideways, finding Gideon—but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are on Tarver, by the window. And far from showing the same bitter dislike I’d seen onboard the Daedalus, when he spoke of Tarver having replaced his brother, his face holds only grief now. As though he shares some of what’s rendered Tarver Merendsen all but catatonic.
As I watch, he sucks in a deep breath, visibly pulling himself together. “We’ve got a signal,” he says, voice bracing as he pulls out a palm pad and crosses to a battered table not far from the window. “Most of the news sites haven’t posted anything local since before the crash, and we’ve got to assume that those headquarters that weren’t hit are still trying to find power.”
“But some have?” Flynn lifts his head, eyes tracking Gideon as he sets the palm pad down on the table, setting up the holo-projection interface.
Gideon nods, not answering until after the palm pad’s screen pops up to life, hovering just above the table where we can all see it. “Pictures of the destruction, a couple of the crash itself from people whose devices synced with the cloud before they—” He stops, lips twisting, and doesn’t finish the sentence. “I think this site’s got a live feed running.”
He makes a few gestures, navigating through a few different sites until he finds a streaming video. The images spring to life, accompanied by the tinny audio from the palm pad’s speakers.
“…from the different reports we’re getting, but we can confirm that the estimated death toll has now increased to a hundred and fifty thousand—that’s a hundred and fifty thousand estimated casualties of the crash.” The image shifts from an aerial view of smoke and flames to a woman’s face, drawn and white underneath her makeup. “If you’re just joining us, this is breaking news coverage reporting that the Daedalus orbital museum, in the middle of its opening night gala, has fallen from its orbit and crashed into the surface of Corinth. The ship and pieces of wreckage have caused massive damage to at least three city sectors, and it’s unknown whether there are any…”
She trails off, eyes going distant as she presses a hand to her ear. “Okay,” she says, voice shaking. “Okay, I’m getting reports now that several diplomatic shuttles—four or maybe five—were seen leaving the Daedalus before it hit the atmosphere. We’re hearing that President Muñoz was evacuated and taken to an undisclosed location as a security measure, where she will remain until the extent of the threat is established. It’s unclear who’s making calls within the government at this time. We do not have confirmation as to who was onboard any of the other shuttles, or whether the ship’s creator, tech magnate Roderick LaRoux, was among the survivors.”
I glance over at Tarver, but I can’t tell if he’s even listening to the report. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the window.
The reporter takes a breath and then continues, clearly fighting to keep her calm and do her job. “Roderick LaRoux, founder and CEO of LaRoux Industries, is confirmed to have been aboard the Daedalus shortly before the crash, along with daughter Lilac LaRoux and future son-in-law Major Tarver Merendsen. It’s unknown whether the Icarus survivors have—” The reporter stops, her haunted eyes staring at the camera for a moment. “Their current whereabouts and conditions are unknown.”
The image flashes back to that aerial shot, a slowly shifting panorama of destruction—billowing clouds of smoke obscure much of the sector, those buildings not leveled by the shock wave still on fire despite the hordes of firefighting drones swarming the scene. The reporter starts summarizing events again, and with a jerk of his wrist, Gideon mutes the feed and then drops his head into his hands.
Jubilee’s eyes are rimmed in red as she watches the footage, her face as haunted as the reporter’s had been—it’s like she’s watching a memory, a ghost. Flynn’s arm tightens around her, and she clears her throat. “We have to assume she survived, and that she’s not done.” Her gaze starts to swivel toward Tarver, by the window, but she stops herself with a visible effort. “Which means we have to stop her.”
“She tore the Daedalus out of the sky with a single thought.” Gideon lifts his head from his hands, numbness creeping in to buffer the shock of the past few hours. “How do you fight something like that?”
Jubilee’s eyes go to Flynn’s. “The same way we’ve been fighting the impossible all along. Bit by bit. All of us, together.”
Something about the footage grabs my eye, and I rise on wobbly legs from my chair so I can look more closely. Flynn takes a step toward me but I wave him off, wishing I could peel back the layers of smoke and haze concealing the city in the projection. Then a sliver of green shows through, and I know what it is—a crescent-shaped courtyard.
“That’s LaRoux Industries,” I whisper, staring at the footage.
I hate myself for the tang of relief that surges through me—I should bear the pain, the scars, as reminders of what I tried to do. Of what I did do. Of the hundreds of thousands of people in this city dead now, because of me.
“Whoops, hey…” Flynn’s arms tighten around me as I sag, the medication threatening to rob me of consciousness.
“I’m fine,” I reply though gritted teeth, getting my feet back under me. As much as I try to focus, somewhere at the back of my mind, I keep seeing Lilac cry out and fall, keep seeing the blood on her arm, keep seeing the inky darkness bleed into her gaze as she lay on the floor.
The doorway leads to a smaller room, maybe intended to be an individual’s office, with windows on two of the walls. Though they look out only at the buildings next door, the air is hazy and the light a vivid red-orange that makes my heart constrict. I’ve seen too many things on fire not to know what this is. Corinth is burning.
There’s only one other person in the room, and as the glow lights his face, my heart shrivels the rest of the way. It’s Tarver, sunken into a folding chair, eyes fixed out the window. He doesn’t look over when we enter.
Flynn finds a chair for me, hastily depositing me into it and then heading for Jubilee. He glances from her to the ex-soldier by the window. “Is he…”
Jubilee’s expression flickers, and I’m surprised by the depth of emotion I see there, in this face that was always so stony, so implacable, on Avon. “He won’t talk to me,” she murmurs back. “He’s—” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to do.”
Flynn doesn’t answer, instead reaching out to take Jubilee’s hand and draw her close, pressing his forehead to hers. I find myself staring at them as her fingers twine through his, the unlikely sight of Flynn embracing the most notorious soldier we’ve ever had on our part of Avon striking me all but senseless. I knew he had feelings for her, but…
“I can’t help him.” Her voice is barely audible.
“One step at a time,” Flynn replies, with the same patient determination that saw him through the years after his sister was killed.
My gaze slides sideways, finding Gideon—but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are on Tarver, by the window. And far from showing the same bitter dislike I’d seen onboard the Daedalus, when he spoke of Tarver having replaced his brother, his face holds only grief now. As though he shares some of what’s rendered Tarver Merendsen all but catatonic.
As I watch, he sucks in a deep breath, visibly pulling himself together. “We’ve got a signal,” he says, voice bracing as he pulls out a palm pad and crosses to a battered table not far from the window. “Most of the news sites haven’t posted anything local since before the crash, and we’ve got to assume that those headquarters that weren’t hit are still trying to find power.”
“But some have?” Flynn lifts his head, eyes tracking Gideon as he sets the palm pad down on the table, setting up the holo-projection interface.
Gideon nods, not answering until after the palm pad’s screen pops up to life, hovering just above the table where we can all see it. “Pictures of the destruction, a couple of the crash itself from people whose devices synced with the cloud before they—” He stops, lips twisting, and doesn’t finish the sentence. “I think this site’s got a live feed running.”
He makes a few gestures, navigating through a few different sites until he finds a streaming video. The images spring to life, accompanied by the tinny audio from the palm pad’s speakers.
“…from the different reports we’re getting, but we can confirm that the estimated death toll has now increased to a hundred and fifty thousand—that’s a hundred and fifty thousand estimated casualties of the crash.” The image shifts from an aerial view of smoke and flames to a woman’s face, drawn and white underneath her makeup. “If you’re just joining us, this is breaking news coverage reporting that the Daedalus orbital museum, in the middle of its opening night gala, has fallen from its orbit and crashed into the surface of Corinth. The ship and pieces of wreckage have caused massive damage to at least three city sectors, and it’s unknown whether there are any…”
She trails off, eyes going distant as she presses a hand to her ear. “Okay,” she says, voice shaking. “Okay, I’m getting reports now that several diplomatic shuttles—four or maybe five—were seen leaving the Daedalus before it hit the atmosphere. We’re hearing that President Muñoz was evacuated and taken to an undisclosed location as a security measure, where she will remain until the extent of the threat is established. It’s unclear who’s making calls within the government at this time. We do not have confirmation as to who was onboard any of the other shuttles, or whether the ship’s creator, tech magnate Roderick LaRoux, was among the survivors.”
I glance over at Tarver, but I can’t tell if he’s even listening to the report. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the window.
The reporter takes a breath and then continues, clearly fighting to keep her calm and do her job. “Roderick LaRoux, founder and CEO of LaRoux Industries, is confirmed to have been aboard the Daedalus shortly before the crash, along with daughter Lilac LaRoux and future son-in-law Major Tarver Merendsen. It’s unknown whether the Icarus survivors have—” The reporter stops, her haunted eyes staring at the camera for a moment. “Their current whereabouts and conditions are unknown.”
The image flashes back to that aerial shot, a slowly shifting panorama of destruction—billowing clouds of smoke obscure much of the sector, those buildings not leveled by the shock wave still on fire despite the hordes of firefighting drones swarming the scene. The reporter starts summarizing events again, and with a jerk of his wrist, Gideon mutes the feed and then drops his head into his hands.
Jubilee’s eyes are rimmed in red as she watches the footage, her face as haunted as the reporter’s had been—it’s like she’s watching a memory, a ghost. Flynn’s arm tightens around her, and she clears her throat. “We have to assume she survived, and that she’s not done.” Her gaze starts to swivel toward Tarver, by the window, but she stops herself with a visible effort. “Which means we have to stop her.”
“She tore the Daedalus out of the sky with a single thought.” Gideon lifts his head from his hands, numbness creeping in to buffer the shock of the past few hours. “How do you fight something like that?”
Jubilee’s eyes go to Flynn’s. “The same way we’ve been fighting the impossible all along. Bit by bit. All of us, together.”
Something about the footage grabs my eye, and I rise on wobbly legs from my chair so I can look more closely. Flynn takes a step toward me but I wave him off, wishing I could peel back the layers of smoke and haze concealing the city in the projection. Then a sliver of green shows through, and I know what it is—a crescent-shaped courtyard.
“That’s LaRoux Industries,” I whisper, staring at the footage.
