These Broken Stars (40 page)

My father gets slowly to his feet. He’s a tall man, with suits tailored to emphasize his stature in dark, powerful colors. He places one hand on the back of his chair, watching me impassively. He says nothing, but I know what he’s thinking.

“When we get to Corinth, Tarver and I will issue a statement together explaining how we salvaged a downed escape pod to send a distress signal. We won’t mention the station. Tarver’s probably in a room somewhere right now, lying, keeping your secrets. No one will ever have to know what we’ve seen.

“But, Father—and this is the important part—I’m holding you personally responsible for his safety. Because if something ever happens to him, I’ll know it was you. If he’s transferred to the front lines, I’ll know. 
If he comes down with a mysterious illness, I’ll know. If so much as 
a hair on his head is out of place, I’ll know. And if someday someone thinks to blackmail or threaten him into leaving me, I’ll know that too.”

“Lilac, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying.” His tone is cold, 
but I can see something behind it—something I’ve never seen before. Uncertainty. “Why his safety should be my responsibility—”

“His safety is your responsibility the way Simon’s should have been.” For the first time the memory of Simon’s green eyes and quick laugh don’t hurt. And this time, when I look at my father, he’s silent. “If something happens to Tarver the way it happened to Simon, it’ll be the end of LaRoux Industries. The galaxy will know what you did here. And if that happens, all the power and the money in the universe won’t be enough to save you.”

My vision is blurring—not with tears, but with the effort of not blinking. I can no longer see my father’s face clearly, and so I stare past him.
Just get through this. You faced a wilderness with monsters, a ship full of corpses, the emptiness of death itself. You can do this.

“And if something ever happens to Tarver Merendsen, you will lose me too. You’ll lose me forever. And you’ll have no one left.”

I finally let myself blink, and when my vision clears I can see my father standing there, quite suddenly old. His white hair seems thinner, his skin looser. I can see wrinkles around his eyes that I don’t remember being there. The hand on the chair back is for support now, not to strike a powerful stance. His mouth quivers.

I harden my heart. This, too, I learned from him. “I’ll never speak to you again. Do you understand?”

He lets out a long breath, head bowed. “Lilac …”

“Do you understand?”

“You’re free to go.”

“Excuse me?”

“The door is unlocked, Major.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Major—you realize that your story and our findings don’t 
add up.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you, sir. It’s what happened.”

“There’s absolutely no evidence to back you up.”

“You really think I could make something like this up?”

My interrogator stands and gestures to the door, 
which swings open as if on command.

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to process the idea that I’m free to go, my mind desperately tumbling over itself as it searches for the trick. What’s the next step, the next part of the game? My eyes are scratchy, aching, my head throbbing to a slow pulse. Hunger has faded out now in favor of a heavy nausea that sits like a weight in the pit of my stomach.

I push upright, knees protesting, muscles cramping. I walk out of the room without sparing him another glance.

Lilac’s waiting outside in a long corridor lined on one side with broad windows. It must be night, ship’s time, because the lights are dimmed, and she’s lit largely by the light of the planet beyond the windows. She’s wrapped up in some sort of robe, but it could be a ball gown, the way she stands in it. Navy blue, the same color she was wearing the night we met. Straight and poised, skin clear and hair caught up in one of those fancy knots I’ll never understand; all that’s missing is her entourage. They must have attacked her face with some sort of treatment, because her freckles are already fading. It’s as though the past few weeks never happened.

I’ve played my part. Has she played hers?
Could
she play hers, after having a glimpse of her own world again? I remember what I said to her once, about returning to the real world.
Best not to make promises. It’s not as simple as either of us would like it to be.

For an endless moment she simply stares at me, eyes raking over me, taking in my exhaustion. There’s no hint of the Lilac I came to know on the planet.

My heart wants to stop, and I want to let it.

She’s the one to break the silence. “Tarver, are you—”

I move toward her before I can stop myself, and halt half a pace away.

“I’m fine. Are you … ?”

“My father came.” She’s still gazing at me, blue eyes intent. I must 
look like hell. “What did you tell them? Is it over?”

I drag my eyes away from her mouth, swallowing. We’re alone in this corridor and yet I can feel the weight of the reporters waiting to photograph us, the incredulous people in Lilac’s circles, and the soldiers too, the shadow of her father over us. Is it too much for her?

Is it too much for me?

“What could I tell them?” I say lightly, trying to ignore how badly I want to reach out, close the gap between us. “I’m just a big, dumb soldier. What do I know?”

Her lips curve a little, amused, and for the first time my heart flickers with hope. There are her dimples again. I scan her face, looking for traces of the black eye she used to have, for her fading freckles, for anything to make her mine, not theirs. “What about you, Miss LaRoux?”

“Me?” She takes a deep breath, and with a jolt I realize she’s as fearful as I am. “I’m just a spoiled heiress, too traumatized to remember anything.”

And then she smiles, for real, and just like on the
Icarus
the first night we met, it’s all over. It’s nothing like a smile she would have given then, lopsided and true, and full of anxious hope. I reach for her, on fire. For a moment I feel the curve of her mouth against mine, smiling before the hunger takes over. Then I move forward into her, and she grabs handfuls of my shirt, pulling me with her as we crash into the wall of the hallway. She’s holding me in close and my hands are at her hips, her sides, framing her face as her lips part and I kiss her, my mind spinning with all the moments I thought she was gone.

But she’s here, she’s mine. I’m hers.

My heart’s thumping when we break apart, and I lean in to rest my forehead against hers. “You want to get out of here?”

She wraps her arms around my neck, lips tugging up in a smile once more. “Think we can outrun the cameras?”

“I do have extensive training in the art of stealth and camouflage.” I 
find I’m smiling in return, helpless.

She opens her mouth to speak, but a blinding flash from beyond the windows interrupts her and sends her reeling backward with a cry. I turn, half blinded myself despite having my back to the windows. The light sweeps on past the ship, rippling outward from the planet in a wave. Blinking away afterimages, I’m left staring at the planet itself, struggling to understand what I’m seeing.

Lines of fire are spreading over the surface of the planet like cracks in an eggshell, as if some massive creature is hatching from the planet’s depths. Lilac makes a low sound in her throat and grabs for my hand. The chasms widen, whole chunks of landmass vanishing into fire.

There’s no sound across the vacuum of space, and for a long moment we stand there in eerie, utter silence, witnessing the destruction of the planet before us.

Lilac is the first to move, the first to speak. “Now no one will ever know what happened here.” She swallows, gaze still fixed on the window as a series of soundless explosions eject streams of molten rock out toward the mirror moon.

In the darkened corridor, the red-gold fire consuming the planet is reflected in Lilac’s eyes, transforming them. In her face I can see the echo of the planet’s destruction, the loss of the last shred of proof of everything she went through.

I wrap my arms around her, as much to reassure myself as anything. Ducking my head until her hair tickles my face, I take a long, steadying breath. “We’ll know,” I whisper.

We don’t move from that spot, not even when the ship’s engines kick in. We keep watching as the shattered planet and the remnants of its moon recede into the distance, back and back into the infinite dark. Until our eyes have to strain to see them, until they’re only jagged pinpricks of reflected light.

The hyperspace drive gives its telltale whine, and Lilac leans back into me, bracing as we prepare to jump, to fold space to get home faster.

Home to cameras and reporters, and questions from people who’d never 
understand what happened to us. I haven’t given up on finding answers, 
not yet, even if we only whisper those answers to each other.

But just now, as we wait for the engines to kick in, all of that is far away. For a moment the image before us is frozen: our world, our lives, reduced to a handful of broken stars half lost in uncharted space. Then it’s gone, the view swallowed by the hyperspace winds streaming past, blue-green auroras wiping the afterimages away.

Until all that’s left is us.

We would like to thank our amazing agents, Josh and Tracey Adams, for support, sanity, and SCBs at all the right moments—we’re so grateful we have you on our side! Thank you also to the foreign scouts, agents, and publishers who have helped take our book places we’ve never been.

Thank you to our fantastic editor Abby Ranger for taking on Lilac 
and Tarver’s story, and teaching, challenging, and supporting us. Abby, it’s truly been our pleasure every step of the way (and thank you to Sylas, for sharing his mom!). Many thanks as well to the wonderful Laura Schreiber for editorial excellence and geeking out with us whenever necessary.

We also want to thank Emily Meehan for asking for us. We’re excited 
to be with you, and can’t wait to see what’s in store.

Many thanks to the Disney-Hyperion family—from sales and marketing, to our copy editor and design team, we’re so grateful to be working with you.

Sarah J. Maas and Susan Dennard—we’re so lucky to have you as friends and critique partners, and we thank you so much for both! Lots of love. Kat Zhang and Olivia Davis, thank you for being right there when we needed you. Thank you to Michelle Dennis for never being tired of reading just one more time, and for boundless (and often tasty) support. You’re irreplaceable.

We’re so grateful to the other amazing people in the writing community who have helped us along the way. Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman, our Story Godmothers—thank you for the push we needed! Jeanne, Corry, and everyone at Odyssey, your support means the world.

To our Leading Ladies: Alison Ward, Amanda Ellwood, Ben Brown (though he’s no lady), Dixie McCartney, Kacey Smith, Marri Knadle, and Soraya Een Hajji, thank you for lessons in storytelling we couldn’t have found anywhere else, and treasured friendships.

Thank you to ship’s science officer Ben Ellis and ship’s demolitions expert Nic Crowhurst for helping us crash things and blow them up (all errors are our own), and to ship’s doctor Kate Irving for reading, critique, medical advice, too many bushwalks to count (
mostly
without survival situations attached), and so many years of extraordinary friendship.

Thank you to our brilliant support networks: the ladies of Pub(lishing) Crawl, the Lucky 13s, the team at FOS, the Roti Boti gang, Jay Kristoff, the TJ/UVA/extended NoVA group, the Plot Bunnies of Melbourne, and the awesome YA writers of Washington DC. Thank you to our fantastic friends, who never mind when we scribble on napkins, bring our laptops everywhere, or slip out because our co-author just woke up on the other side of the world.

And finally, thank you to our families for their love, enthusiasm, and encouragement. We’re so grateful to you all. In particular, thank you to our parents for unstinting encouragement and filling our lives with books, and Flic and Josie, for being our earliest partners in imagination. Thanks to our extended families—the Cousins clan, the Miskes and our own Mr. Wolf. And last, but not least, thank you Brendan. It would’ve been a Massive Crash without you.