This Shattered World
Page 58
I nod, not trusting my voice, and the lines of his face soften as he breaks every protocol we’ve ever known and draws me into a hug. He’s warm and solid, and smells a good sight better than anyone else on Avon, having not showered yet in badly filtered swamp water. I cling to him, trying to banish the thought of green eyes and pain, and the realization that his arms aren’t the ones I want around me.
I’m holding on so tightly that I don’t properly register the sound of the back door easing open. Merendsen does, though, and he lifts his head. An instant later he squeezes me, but this time it’s a warning. I pull back so I can look at the door.
It’s Flynn.
I freeze, going rigid in Merendsen’s arms, unable to speak.
“Can I help you, friend?” Merendsen’s voice is cheerful as he eases back from me, slowly enough not to arouse suspicion. Nothing to see here, his actions say.
Flynn doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are on me, his face devoid of emotion. He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running, but now his muscles are rigid and tense. He’s soaking wet, his hair dripping—his hair. I stare at him, suddenly noticing that in the days we’ve been apart he’s acquired a tan and that his dark curls are now bleached platinum and plastered to his head by water. He looks so different. He looks exactly the same.
My throat closes, my mouth going dry. I can see nothing in his face. No sign of forgiveness. No sign of revulsion. No sign of anything, except that he can’t seem to look away either.
A tiny sound breaks through to my brain—it’s no more than a scrape of fabric, but I’d know it anywhere. Merendsen’s pulled his gun out of its holster, slowly. When I jerk aside to look at him, his gaze is flickering between me and Flynn, his friendly smile gone.
“Stop,” I gasp, as though I’m the one who’s been running. “Don’t.”
Merendsen holds, though the gun doesn’t drop back into the holster. “What’s going on, Lee?” he asks, his voice low, demanding an answer.
But Flynn’s still ignoring him, as if he hasn’t even noticed we’re not alone. “Your note,” he manages. His voice is rough and broken, bearing the signs of whatever he’s faced since we parted. “I came.”
“I told you to wait,” I reply, my voice coming out sharp. Tense, like a taut wire.
The muscles stand out visibly along his jaw before he speaks. “Would you have waited?”
For that, I have no answer. Or rather, I do—but it’s not an answer that would help my argument.
Finally, Flynn’s eyes shift, and I realize he hadn’t missed Merendsen’s presence at all. His gaze is chilly at best as he looks over my former captain. “Sorry, friend,” he says, echoing the word Merendsen chose. “I was startled. Just shipped in. Looking for work.”
He can’t lie convincingly—not here, not now. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Merendsen and I go way back. We can trust him.”
Flynn doesn’t answer, glancing from Merendsen to me, and it strikes me that Merendsen still looks like a soldier, despite the civvies. He stands like one, reacts like one. It’s impossible not to know he’s military.
Merendsen looks no more convinced than Flynn, eyeing him and taking in the bleached hair, the faux tan. The disguise works, and the fact that he looks ridiculous enough to brush aside is a good thing, but the desire to defend him from Merendsen’s unspoken judgment surges up anyway. I push it back down.
“Merendsen, this is Flynn. Flynn Cormac. Orla Cormac’s little brother.”
Flynn’s breath catches as I betray his true identity. But his reaction is nothing to Merendsen’s, whose dubious half smile vanishes as his expression goes cold. There’s not a soldier on Avon, past or present, who doesn’t know that name.
The air is thick with tension. Merendsen doesn’t lift his gun, but I can tell by the way he steps back on the balls of his feet that he’s poised to fight if necessary. I can’t help but wonder what happened to him while he was marooned, that his instincts are as finely honed as when he was on active duty.
“Okay, Lee. Tell me what’s going on. I assume we’re not all here to kill each other.”
Flynn’s watching me too, his eyes narrowed, his own muscles tense.
You’re not handling this awesomely, Lee.
I brace myself. “Flynn, this is Tarver Merendsen, my former captain when he was posted here. I called him to come help us.” I can tell from the blank look on Flynn’s face that he doesn’t recognize the name. And how could he? They don’t have HV news coverage out in the swamps. They aren’t going to know about the crash of the spaceliner Icarus. So I add, “Lilac LaRoux’s fiancé.”
Flynn’s gaze swings from Merendsen’s face to mine, accusing, horrified. Underneath his fake tan, his face has gone pale. “What the—” He jerks back, smacking into the stacks and making the bottles rattle. The noise makes Merendsen tense further, ready to act, his eyes not leaving Flynn’s face.
“Both of you, stop.” I snap the words, my voice cutting. “The last thing I need is you two trying to ice each other. Just—just listen to me, okay? Flynn, I trust him. I’d trust him with my life. We served together here, he knows Avon. He’s a good man, and even if he’s marrying Lilac LaRoux, that doesn’t change who he is. He’s our way in—he can help us.”
God, I hope I’m right about that.
“And sir.” I turn to face Merendsen. “He’s—Flynn isn’t…” I struggle, searching for some way to explain my connection to Flynn in a way that makes sense. That doesn’t sound like I’ve completely lost my mind.
Who says you haven’t?
“He’s not what you would think,” I say lamely. Next to my testimonial to Merendsen’s worth as an ally, it’s a sad, sorry statement. But how can I begin to describe what Flynn’s come to mean to me? My mind shies away from that thought, that truth it’s been avoiding for days. For once, I’m glad I don’t dream, for fear of what my dreams would say of Flynn. I shiver. “Will you guys promise not to kill each other long enough for me to explain what’s been happening here?”
Merendsen’s the first to answer, straightening a little and leaning back against the wall. The pose looks nonchalant, but my trained eye can still pick out signs that he’s alert, still ready for action. “Of course,” he says.
I’m holding on so tightly that I don’t properly register the sound of the back door easing open. Merendsen does, though, and he lifts his head. An instant later he squeezes me, but this time it’s a warning. I pull back so I can look at the door.
It’s Flynn.
I freeze, going rigid in Merendsen’s arms, unable to speak.
“Can I help you, friend?” Merendsen’s voice is cheerful as he eases back from me, slowly enough not to arouse suspicion. Nothing to see here, his actions say.
Flynn doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are on me, his face devoid of emotion. He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running, but now his muscles are rigid and tense. He’s soaking wet, his hair dripping—his hair. I stare at him, suddenly noticing that in the days we’ve been apart he’s acquired a tan and that his dark curls are now bleached platinum and plastered to his head by water. He looks so different. He looks exactly the same.
My throat closes, my mouth going dry. I can see nothing in his face. No sign of forgiveness. No sign of revulsion. No sign of anything, except that he can’t seem to look away either.
A tiny sound breaks through to my brain—it’s no more than a scrape of fabric, but I’d know it anywhere. Merendsen’s pulled his gun out of its holster, slowly. When I jerk aside to look at him, his gaze is flickering between me and Flynn, his friendly smile gone.
“Stop,” I gasp, as though I’m the one who’s been running. “Don’t.”
Merendsen holds, though the gun doesn’t drop back into the holster. “What’s going on, Lee?” he asks, his voice low, demanding an answer.
But Flynn’s still ignoring him, as if he hasn’t even noticed we’re not alone. “Your note,” he manages. His voice is rough and broken, bearing the signs of whatever he’s faced since we parted. “I came.”
“I told you to wait,” I reply, my voice coming out sharp. Tense, like a taut wire.
The muscles stand out visibly along his jaw before he speaks. “Would you have waited?”
For that, I have no answer. Or rather, I do—but it’s not an answer that would help my argument.
Finally, Flynn’s eyes shift, and I realize he hadn’t missed Merendsen’s presence at all. His gaze is chilly at best as he looks over my former captain. “Sorry, friend,” he says, echoing the word Merendsen chose. “I was startled. Just shipped in. Looking for work.”
He can’t lie convincingly—not here, not now. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Merendsen and I go way back. We can trust him.”
Flynn doesn’t answer, glancing from Merendsen to me, and it strikes me that Merendsen still looks like a soldier, despite the civvies. He stands like one, reacts like one. It’s impossible not to know he’s military.
Merendsen looks no more convinced than Flynn, eyeing him and taking in the bleached hair, the faux tan. The disguise works, and the fact that he looks ridiculous enough to brush aside is a good thing, but the desire to defend him from Merendsen’s unspoken judgment surges up anyway. I push it back down.
“Merendsen, this is Flynn. Flynn Cormac. Orla Cormac’s little brother.”
Flynn’s breath catches as I betray his true identity. But his reaction is nothing to Merendsen’s, whose dubious half smile vanishes as his expression goes cold. There’s not a soldier on Avon, past or present, who doesn’t know that name.
The air is thick with tension. Merendsen doesn’t lift his gun, but I can tell by the way he steps back on the balls of his feet that he’s poised to fight if necessary. I can’t help but wonder what happened to him while he was marooned, that his instincts are as finely honed as when he was on active duty.
“Okay, Lee. Tell me what’s going on. I assume we’re not all here to kill each other.”
Flynn’s watching me too, his eyes narrowed, his own muscles tense.
You’re not handling this awesomely, Lee.
I brace myself. “Flynn, this is Tarver Merendsen, my former captain when he was posted here. I called him to come help us.” I can tell from the blank look on Flynn’s face that he doesn’t recognize the name. And how could he? They don’t have HV news coverage out in the swamps. They aren’t going to know about the crash of the spaceliner Icarus. So I add, “Lilac LaRoux’s fiancé.”
Flynn’s gaze swings from Merendsen’s face to mine, accusing, horrified. Underneath his fake tan, his face has gone pale. “What the—” He jerks back, smacking into the stacks and making the bottles rattle. The noise makes Merendsen tense further, ready to act, his eyes not leaving Flynn’s face.
“Both of you, stop.” I snap the words, my voice cutting. “The last thing I need is you two trying to ice each other. Just—just listen to me, okay? Flynn, I trust him. I’d trust him with my life. We served together here, he knows Avon. He’s a good man, and even if he’s marrying Lilac LaRoux, that doesn’t change who he is. He’s our way in—he can help us.”
God, I hope I’m right about that.
“And sir.” I turn to face Merendsen. “He’s—Flynn isn’t…” I struggle, searching for some way to explain my connection to Flynn in a way that makes sense. That doesn’t sound like I’ve completely lost my mind.
Who says you haven’t?
“He’s not what you would think,” I say lamely. Next to my testimonial to Merendsen’s worth as an ally, it’s a sad, sorry statement. But how can I begin to describe what Flynn’s come to mean to me? My mind shies away from that thought, that truth it’s been avoiding for days. For once, I’m glad I don’t dream, for fear of what my dreams would say of Flynn. I shiver. “Will you guys promise not to kill each other long enough for me to explain what’s been happening here?”
Merendsen’s the first to answer, straightening a little and leaning back against the wall. The pose looks nonchalant, but my trained eye can still pick out signs that he’s alert, still ready for action. “Of course,” he says.
