These Broken Stars (30 page)

It’s a little disconcerting that Lilac thinks best in bed. My brain pretty much flatlines under the same circumstances. “You think they discovered these beings, and then hid this place from the rest of the galaxy so they could study them.”

“I don’t know what’s on this planet, Tarver, but whatever—whoever—it is, they can do things. See into our hearts, change our dreams, make us think things. They can create objects out of thin air. Who knows what else they can do? I know that any corporation, or the military for that matter, would stop at nothing for power like that.”

I’m trying to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach, but I know she’s right. There aren’t many corporations with the resources to terraform planets that are known for their compassion and moral fiber.

“Whatever’s going on,” Lilac continues, “the whispers led us here. 
The answers are inside that building. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

I find a grin. “Tomorrow,” I echo, giving her a squeeze.

She curls against me, tucking herself perfectly along my side. “What will we do, if we’re rescued? After we’ve finished eating and drinking and smiling for the cameras?”

“
You’ll
be smiling for the cameras,” I correct her, laughing.

“You’ll have your fair share,” she tells me. “You’re the one who saved 
the life of Roderick LaRoux’s only daughter. It’ll be hard to slip away.”

“My commanding officer will sort it out. I’ll get a week to go home and show my parents I’m whole, then a posting somewhere quiet for a while. Very quiet, if we’ve seen things we’re not supposed to.” Her skin’s so impossibly soft. My hands feel rough against it as I run my palm down her side.

She’s quiet for a little, holding still against me, not leaning into my hand as she usually does. I wait, and let her turn it over in her mind. Eventually she speaks again. “You’ll just—disappear?” The question’s very soft. “What about you and me? What happens to us, if you just vanish?”

I have no flippant answer for her, no deflection this time. I don’t know what happens to us. It’s the question I’ve been trying to avoid every second of every day since we saw the building on the horizon, and discovered the possibility of rescue after all.

“I’m not fourteen anymore.” She lifts herself up on one elbow, gazing at me. “My father is powerful, changing the galaxy to suit him, but he’s not going to change this. He’s strong, but I’d fight him.” Her blue eyes are grave, determined—calm. “I’d fight for you.”

She’s stolen my breath. My hand tightens at her waist until she makes a soft sound of protest, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m hurting her. I want to kiss her until she’s as lost as I am. My heart fills my chest.

But I’ve seen what happens when people go back to the real world. I’ve seen what happens when they’re reunited with their friends, their families. When the everyday rhythms reassert themselves, little currents pulling and tugging them back into the stream of life. Right now this is what she wants, but when she’s back in a life with no room for someone like me? If I let her make these promises and then have to watch her return to her old life, leaving me and all we’ve gone through behind … I’m not sure I can survive that.

With an effort I force myself to start breathing again.

“Lilac.” My voice sounds weak even to me. “Neither of us should make promises like that.”

She swallows. “Are you saying that because you aren’t sure, or because you think I’m not?”

“I’m saying I don’t think it’s as simple as either of us would like it 
to be.”

“It’s the simplest thing in the world,” she whispers, leaning down to brush her lips against mine. “But I don’t mind waiting until you’re sure. You’ll come around.”

I want to tell her I’ve already come around, that I was there before she was—that I’d face down an army of paparazzi and her father to boot if she asked me.

But she doesn’t know how it can all change when you get back to civilization. And I won’t hold her to promises she can’t keep.

She takes her time over preparations in the morning. At least this much was true—she does seem to know what she’s doing when it comes to blowing things up. No wonder they kept this side of her under wraps—this is hardly an acceptable hobby for the well-bred.

She has me stack the fuel tanks six different ways, she paces out distances, tries different fuses. She dumps out some of the fuel—to leave room in the tanks for vapors, she says. I spend my time clearing anything that might cause damage if it flies through the air, until I’m combing the area for twigs and pebbles and even I have to admit none of them could so much as bruise her. After that I sit at the foot of a tree and watch her.

She’s incredible. She’s so composed, so determined, twitching the fuse with two fingers to change the angle a little. There are moments like this when I can actually imagine her at my parents’ cottage. I can see her hauling wood with the rest of us, chopping vegetables, going for long walks and calling it entertainment. I think my parents would like her.

I can see her happy there. I just wish I knew whether I’m only seeing what I want so badly to see.

Crouched by the end of the fuse, she looks over her shoulder and smiles at me, and I smile back, helpless.

Then I realize that she’s bending her head to strike a match, and something clicks together in my head. She can’t. She mustn’t. My daydreams scatter and I scramble to my feet, too slow, helpless—I don’t know how I know, but every instinct I have is screaming at me as she leans down to touch the flame to the fuse.

The little spark races up the string fuse, too fast. The wind picks up, 
and the fuse burns quicker, leaping up toward the barrels.

She spots it as I do, and she whirls away from it. I stand helplessly by the tree. I can’t move.

She makes it seven steps before the fuel tanks explode.

The flames blossom out behind her, and the
boom
comes an instant later. The building’s tearing open like a tin can, and Lilac’s thrown through the air like she weighs nothing at all. She hits the ground with a thud, rolling over and over as debris rains down around her. My body fails me, locking in place and keeping me from her. I rip my foot from where I’m rooted to the ground and finally start moving. She’s facedown, unmoving, lying amid a dozen tiny grass fires as the last light particles fall around us.

I throw myself down beside her, turn her over with a hand at her shoulder and one at her hip. My throat is frozen, unable to even whisper her name. She lets me move her without protest, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other reaching weakly up for me.

Her face is white, but apart from the dirt smudges and the bruise across her cheek, she looks unscathed. For the first time since the explosion, I feel myself take a full breath.

“That was exciting,” she murmurs, her eyes still closed. “Did it work?”

“I think they saw it from space,” I whisper, leaning down over her to press my forehead to hers. “Are you all right?”

“Shh.” Her voice is almost inaudible. “Tarver, I need you to—” She breaks off to groan softly, her mouth tightening, eyes squeezing tighter shut, pinched with pain.

My heart contracts. “Lilac, tell me what hurts.”

Her hand curls around my sleeve, the way she usually summons me for a kiss. She opens her eyes with a visible effort, blinking until she can focus on me. “Just listen, okay? When you get inside—should be a generator. You have to—to get enough power for a signal.”

“Lilac, stop, that doesn’t matter.” She’s in pain somewhere, though I can’t see where. My hands are shaking as I start unbuttoning her shirt. “We’ll handle that when we get inside.”

“Don’t think we will,” she whispers, hoarse. Then she lifts her hand away from where it’s wrapped around her middle, and shows me what she’s hiding, what she’s holding together. A tangle of bloodstained shirt 
and skin, the glint of metal embedded deep.

I can’t hear, can’t see, can’t think.

My body knows what to do, though. “Put the pressure back on, keep your hand on it.” My voice snaps orders like I’m out in the field. I scramble across to our pack to haul out the first-aid supplies she salvaged from the
Icarus
, sending bottles and bandages flying in every direction as I dig for the one vial that matters. “Keep your hand on it, we have a coagulant.”

“Don’t.” Her voice is weak, though she presses her hand back over the wound. “You’ll need it later, until help comes.”

“I need it now.” Finally I find it, tearing the wrapper off a needle and scrambling back to her on hands and knees. Breathe in—one, two. Breathe out—one, two. My hand steadies. I fit the bottle to the needle, watching as it fills, lifting it, tapping it free of bubbles.

It’s not enough. I know that as I slide the needle into her skin. It can’t stop this kind of bleeding. The shrapnel went straight through her gut. This injection can’t sew her back together.

“Please,” she whispers, flinching.

I throw the empty needle aside and haul my shirt off over my head, lifting her hand and pressing the fabric against her abdomen. “I’m here, Lilac, I’m here. I promise. I’m right beside you.”

She pushes weakly at my arm, shock overtaking sense as her gaze slides past me to the sky beyond. “This is why it’s better. I’d be in pieces, if it were you.”

I am in pieces, Lilac.

But my body keeps moving, my mouth keeps talking. “Stop it, I’ve seen this before. We can fix this.” I press down on the wound and reach out with my other hand to touch her cheek, trying to guide her gaze back to my face. I want her to look at me.

She whimpers, and the sound breaks my heart. “Tarver, it’s okay. Don’t start lying to me again. I’m not afraid.” But she’s crying, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes and running down her temples, leaving pale tracks in the dirt.

I don’t know what to say. Words abandon me.

“Tell my daddy—” She breaks off to cough, and blood trickles down from the corner of her mouth. I see the confusion start to take her. I’ve 
seen this before, too.

No. Please, no.

Her hand lifts to grab at me, finding my arm and clutching tight. “Tarver.” Her whisper’s a gurgle, the blood in her throat now. “I lied. I’m—I don’t want to die.” Her blue eyes are wide and terrified as she gazes past me.

I’m shaking as I ease down to stretch out beside her, pressing my forehead to her temple, whispering my words against her skin. “I’m here.” I can barely make myself loud enough, but I think she hears me. “I promise, I’m right here, Lilac. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave.”

She struggles for another breath, reaching across to touch my face, 
her fingertips trailing across my cheek. “I thought …”

Her hand goes limp, and I feel the moment the life goes out of her. For a moment we lie perfectly still together, neither of us breathing. And then my treacherous lungs contract, and send me gasping for air no matter how I try to stop.

She remains still, silent. Her eyes, like reflecting pools, show me the 
trees, the leaves, the sky.

“Are you all right, Major? Your throat seems a little dry.”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

This is shock. I know that from my field training. My 
mouth is dry, and my hands are starting to tremble. I’m cold.

I stare down at her face, but it’s like I’m looking at her through glass, removed. I find myself noticing trivial things—the length of her eyelashes, the new freckles that stand out on her pale cheeks. She never knew about those.

But I saw them, and I loved them, I loved—

I should close her eyes, I know that. There are steps to be followed. My body’s trying to move, trying to do what it’s done before, but I can’t stop shaking. I observe the tiny cuts and blackened fingernails on my hand, and wait for it to stop trembling so I can brush her eyelids, but it won’t. It worsens, and I stare at it, fascinated.

The brain places importance on these small nothings to distract itself from overwhelming trauma. Instinct causes it to start memorizing details feverishly when it’s in danger. I’ve been trained for this.

No. No one trained me for
this
.

I know there’s this other thing I should be thinking about, this other thing I know, but every time I try to approach it my mind reels away, shuddering. I can’t think it. I can’t know it.

The bile rises up my throat in a rush, and I wheel away from her to plant my hands in the grass as I cough, gag, then swallow hard. I’m panting, but I keep from throwing up. My elbows start to bend, and I lock them in place.

I know with utter certainty that if I let myself fold to the ground beside her, I’ll stay there forever. The lessons they’ve drilled into me forbid it.

I stagger to my feet, movements clumsy. I’m swaying when I stand, looking around the clearing for something—anything—that will tell me what to do. The small fires from the explosion are burning out. Time must have passed. I don’t remember.

And I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing here. No protocol, no notification, no debriefing, no—anything. Just me, standing in the middle of the clearing, Lilac at my feet.

The building is still smoking, one wall blown inward, debris scattered and metal twisted. The trees around the edge of the clearing bow inward, the forest beyond utterly silent. The tiny details of the scene clog my thoughts, dragging my attention away from this thing I can’t understand.

I try again to push past the great wall of resistance in my mind.

Lilac is dead.

Nothing.

Lilac took shrapnel. Lilac bled out.

Nothing. I can say it to myself, I can push the words around in my mind, but there’s not even a twitch of a response. They’re just words. Stupid, impossible words—so ridiculous that I ignore them.

I try again, something smaller, like worrying at a loose tooth or picking at a scab.

Lilac won’t talk to me again.

There’s a tremor.

Lilac won’t kiss me again. I won’t hear her laugh.