These Broken Stars Part 15

It turns out the part of the hull that hasn't been torn open is sealed off almost completely by melted streams of an alloy that was never meant to go through atmo. The sealing off is a good sign, I guess-maybe whatever's inside will be intact-but that only matters if we can find a way to access it.

I keep the Gleidel in my hand as we work our way along the edge of the broken hull, two ants trooping along the base of a huge metal wall that rises to the sky above us. We don't see any sign of other survivors. Can we really be the only ones? Surrounded by the utter silence of the wreck, I realize all over again that Lilac's actions are the reason we're alive. I may have saved her life when it came to the cat monster, and I may have gotten her this far, but neither of us would be here if she hadn't found a way to wrench us away from the Icarus. I can't help but watch her as we walk, my attention divided between our surroundings and the girl at my side. Seeing her in all her finery on board the s.h.i.+p, could I have ever imagined her like this? Wrapped up in the dirt-stained mechanic's suit, ruined dress stuffed in underneath and hair tied back with a dingy piece of string?

It's Lilac who finds the fault line that lets us in. A sheet of metal has buckled away from the unbroken wall a fraction, rivets showing, only darkness within. We don't speak as we get to work, lining up side by side to take hold of it and lean back, muscles straining to bend it and make the hole a little bigger. I feel like telling her to take a rest, but when I glance down at her, her jaw's squared and her frown is determined. Maybe she's not quite as weak as I thought-and maybe I'm not as strong or as heavy as I was when we landed.

An instant after I finish that thought, red-hot pain cuts across my palm, and I let go, stumbling back from the metal sheet and whipping my hand free. The metal springs back into place and Lilac nearly gets her own fingers trapped. I should have been concentrating, heeding my own advice. Now there's an angry red line across my palm, and a moment later there's blood, oozing, then flowing freely.

"Tarver, are you-oh." She curses admirably, then turns businesslike, hauling the pack off my shoulder and dropping to the ground to dig out our pathetic first-aid kit. All I can do is lift my bleeding hand above my head, and use my free hand to squeeze the wrist, trying to limit the blood flow, but it's deep. I can tell already.

"Where did you learn to say that, Miss LaRoux?" I try, keeping my voice light.

"You just wait until it's my father asking that same question, Major." She pulls out the little kit and starts to unpack it. "Then you'll know what real trouble is. Come down here, I'll try to bandage it up."

"I plan on being far away by the time the subject arises." I carefully sink to my knees. "Exiled to some far colony to fight the rebels, in punishment for making eyes at his daughter."

"You keep your eyes to yourself." The wound's bleeding properly now, and she wads up one of our bandages with our only gauze pad to press it against my palm, then straps it all into place with the other bandage. I wince as the pain begins to register properly, burning its way up my arm.

"Baby," she teases, wrapping the bandage around my palm. Despite her best efforts, though, the blood starts showing through the bandages while she's still packing away the nearly empty first-aid kit.

It turns out we've bent the metal far enough that she can wriggle in, and I wait anxiously as she turns herself sideways and squirms, pulling herself inch by inch into the darkness. "Keep checking you can move backward," I say, squatting down to try to get a better look at her progress. "You don't want to get stuck. And check with your fingertips before you grab anything."

Her legs disappear, and I hold my breath, waiting. My heart hammers in my chest. There's a clang, and the metal sheet shudders as she kicks from inside, then kicks again. It bends more easily with force in that direction, and once the gap is wide enough, I stoop to crawl in after her.

The air inside the s.h.i.+p is cold and still, but it smells okay. It's not as dark as I'd feared-small breaks in the hull let in speckled daylight, though it won't be much good once we go deeper. I keep my hand tucked against my body, hoping the bleeding will slow.

"We should be in a storage area." Her voice startles me. "Cargo, luggage maybe. Some services as well."

"There were a lot of troops on board. I'd love to find some rations. They taste like cardboard, but they're nutritionally complete and they'll keep forever." I feel like biting my tongue as soon as I'm finished. I've been trying hard not to mention the possibility that forever is exactly how long we'll be stuck here.

"There's a proper hallway up ahead." She disappears from view again, and then I realize her body was blocking the light as she climbed out of the service duct we're in and into a pa.s.sage. It's tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, but we can keep our footing if we're careful. I hold open the pack so she can fish out the flashlight, and suddenly we can see.

The first two doors we try are jammed shut by the warping of the s.h.i.+p, but the third one swings open. The room's full of crates that have tumbled and smashed, and piles of circuitry litter the floor. Useless.

Lilac pushes open the next door, and I try the other side of the hallway.

"No use," she calls as I push my door open.

Inside, there are piles of fabric everywhere, sheets and clothes all down one side of the room, lying together where they fell. I've hit the mother lode. It's got to be the laundry. I don't know if the stuff in here is clean or not, but it's got to be cleaner than we are.

"Remember that ladylike behavior of yours?" I call out, letting her hear the smile in my voice. "This is the time for it. No pus.h.i.+ng, shoving, screaming, or-"

I don't get any further. She's heard the s.h.i.+ft in my voice and crossed the hallway in a heartbeat. She wastes only a moment in gaping, then shoves past me to dash across to the pile of clothes, laughing.

"Tarver, Tarver. There are-can you see them all?" She's running the flashlight over the offerings, revealing swaths of fabric of every color.

I've got my mouth half open to reply when she starts unzipping the mechanic's suit, and then my mouth falls the rest of the way open by itself. It's dark inside the room, but I catch a quick glimpse of pale skin beneath the remnants of her dress before I remember myself, and decide to take a good, hard look at my boots. To judge by the sounds over on the other side of the room, she's forgotten I exist. The mechanic's suit must have been really uncomfortable, even wearing it over her dress, if she's that eager to get it off while I'm standing right here.

"There's dresses," she whispers, and I catch a movement in my peripheral vision. Oh, G.o.d, come on. It's the mechanic's suit and the ruined green dress being kicked across the floor away from her. So what does that mean she's wearing right now? She didn't actually say I couldn't look.

"Don't look," she cautions me, as though she just read my mind. Dammit.

I turn away and hold my palm out to examine it in a small stripe of light that falls near the doorway. The bandages are red, and it's throbbing to the regular beat of my pulse. I wish it would stop. The scratch itself is nothing, and I've had far worse in the field, but never without any hope at all of a medic or st.i.tches. It'll just have to be all right.

"There are sheets, we can make a bed. A proper bed, imagine. We won't know what to do with it." She's laughing as she speaks.

Oh, trust me, Miss LaRoux. I'd know what to do with it. I can think up a whole list of things, if you like.

"You can turn around now."

I turn slowly, sure I'm going to see her clad in something frilly and impractical, but I can't make out a thing because she's got the flashlight pointed at me. Then she changes the angle of the light so I can see her, and I find myself staring.

She's picked out a pair of jeans and a pale blue s.h.i.+rt, and standing there barefoot with her hair hauled back out of her face, freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, she looks perfect. She looks nothing like a princess, but she looks exactly like a girl from home. She smiles, and her dimples show, and my words get stuck in my throat.

She seems to take my slack-jawed silence as approval, and hands over the flashlight, politely turning to face the doorway so I can pick out some clothes for myself. I spare a thought for the man whose fatigues I find, but I'm most comfortable in khaki, and he was about my size. I find a new pair of pants and a T-s.h.i.+rt and ease into both using one hand, then call out to her so we can gather up some spares and extra layers.

I show her how to tear up a sheet to make bandages-I can't use my hand for much at all now-and we make up a better dressing for my gash. She works carefully, using a pillowcase to wipe the blood away, then emptying what's left of the tiny bottle of antiseptic over my palm. We've used most of it on scratches and sc.r.a.pes, and now I'm regretting that. Once she's finished, she sets another pad gently against the gash, then swathes my hand in bandages, so my fingers poke out the top.

We fill the canteen from one of the water tanks in the laundry, then find big white bags and fill them to bursting with spare clothes and a pile of sheets to make up our bed, carrying one each as we make our way back out to the hallway.

"Do we have enough for dinner tonight?" she asks. "I guess we'll eat the rations you got out of the pod, then we can make camp. It's getting dark."

I follow her gaze and realize she's right-the daylight coming in through the cracks in the s.h.i.+p's hull is fading out. I should have been the one to notice that.

She starts toward the doorway dragging her bag of laundry, but I swing the flashlight over to where she changed her clothes. "Want me to grab your dress?"

Her eyes follow the beam of the flashlight toward the pile of dirty green satin. The corner of her mouth lifts in a rueful smile, and then she shakes her head briskly. "Leave it," she decides, turning her back on what's left of her old life.

We push and pull our laundry bags through the service chute once more and find a place to camp in the lee of a huge, twisted sheet of metal outside. There's a stream nearby, and if the wreckage has contaminated the water, the canteen's filter should take care of it.

We haven't seen any sign of a living soul, but I dig our fire pit deep anyway, trying in vain to keep my hand clean. It's still throbbing. Lilac busies herself making an elaborate bed, sorting the clothes into piles, then covering her efforts up with a sheet. After a moment's consideration, she stuffs a few items into the white laundry bags and makes us pillows.

We don't have a lot of fuel-a little we carried in, and a little we find nearby-but it's enough to heat a canteen of water and make ourselves some weak soup, and it helps make the ration bars a little more of a meal.

We talk about the things we want to try to salvage from the s.h.i.+p-medical supplies, food, warmer clothes, even a cooking pot-and study the silhouette of the wreck against the stars. I wonder whether we can climb her to get a better look at the terrain around us.

Lilac falls asleep with her head on my shoulder, and I carefully tug the sheets up over us, trying not to use more than two fingers.

No sign of the whispers. I can't help but wonder what it means. In coming to the wreck, have we done whatever they were trying to communicate? Or are they still watching, waiting? I don't understand-or trust-their intentions.

I suppose something could be preventing them from reaching us. Maybe now we're on our own.

"Significant parts of the s.h.i.+p were intact?"

"You've got the recon pictures."

"I'm asking a question, Major."

"You're asking a lot of questions you know the answers to. Is there a purpose to that?"

"Is there a purpose behind your refusal to cooperate?"

"I'm cooperating. Is that water coming anytime soon?"

"The s.h.i.+p. Significant parts of it were intact?"

"Parts weren't incinerated, but I wouldn't say they were intact."

"You conducted salvage without incident?"

"I cut my hand. That was about as exciting as it got."

TWENTY-FOUR.

LILAC.

EXPLORING THE s.h.i.+P IS A MIND-NUMBING TASK. Even though huge portions of it broke apart during its descent or were crushed on impact, it was originally large enough to hold fifty thousand people, with room to spare. Getting through just a fraction of it will take days. For every room we find with useful supplies there are dozens where everything is smashed, or where a fire swept through and left only shriveled plastene and unidentifiable char behind.

Tarver's been hiding his hand from me. At first, I a.s.sumed he was protecting me from the fact he's not invincible, for fear I'd fall apart.

But the morning of the second day, I know something's wrong. His face is white, with spots of red on either cheek, and his eyes take longer to focus than they should. He's too quiet. He's moving slowly. He doesn't even comment now when I turn his own foul language back at him. Just grunts and keeps moving.

We break for lunch deep inside the s.h.i.+p, sitting on an overturned cabinet in what was once an administrative office of some kind. There's no daylight, and we can see only with the help of the flashlight. He gives me two thirds of the ration bar. I give back the extra and he shakes his head, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head drop between them.

"Tarver," I start cautiously. "We should take a rest day, maybe. We're low on rations, but not so low that we can't put off finding food here for a little while longer."

He shakes his head again, not bothering to lift it.

"Like we did on the plains, when I needed a break. We took a half day."

This time he does lift his head, and his eyes wander before coming to rest on me. "No. We need to keep moving."

"Tarver." This time my voice is firmer. I don't think I can bully him, but I have to try. "You clearly need rest. We should take a break, and I'll go find some of the gra.s.ses you showed me on the plains, and we'll eat those to stretch our food supplies."

He doesn't answer this time, but I can tell by the set of his jaw that he's determined to keep going. Then the fingers of his right hand tug at the grubby bandage covering his left, and suddenly realization hits me.

It's not the food stores he's desperate for. He needs to find the sick bay. He needs medicine.

I look at his hand again. It hangs uselessly off his wrist, fingers puffy and stiff. The color on his cheeks is visible in the half-light, and despite the chill in the air, he's sweating.

"Go back." I'm speaking fast, white-hot fear driving me. "Tarver, go back to camp right now. Go to bed."

This summons the first smile in hours. "Sound like my mother."

For once, I'm not in the mood for his jokes. "I mean it. Move, soldier." Though I can't quite inject the barking tone he employs when trying to jolt me into action, I hope the words will be enough.

He looks at me, hollow-eyed, then tightens his jaw as his gaze drifts off again. "Not going to let you wander around here by yourself. You get hurt, there's no one to help. It would take me ages to find you, if I did at all."

I get up and kneel on the floor in front of him, reaching up to turn his face toward mine and forcing him to meet my eyes.

"And I'm not going to let you get sick from an infection because you're too stupid to take care of yourself. I'll be careful."

His mouth twists, for all the world like a child refusing to take his medicine. He knows my chances of making any headway by myself are slim. If he weren't here I'd have died any one of a thousand deaths already on this G.o.dforsaken planet.

And then I know how to convince him.

"If you die," I whisper, my eyes on his, "then I will too."

By the time I return from the s.h.i.+p to camp again, night has fallen, and Tarver is only half-conscious. It didn't take long for me to find one of the food stores-but even the sight of dried pasta and spices and sugar couldn't relieve the knot of tension twisting in my chest. I ought to be relieved-we were on our last few ration bars. But hunger is no longer our biggest problem.

The packets are all stamped with the stylized upside down V of my father's logo-the Greek lambda, for LaRoux. My father and his stupid fixation on mythology. He told me all the old stories when I was little, of warring G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, and I almost imagined he was one of them. All-powerful, all-knowing. Someone to be wors.h.i.+pped unconditionally. But who names a stars.h.i.+p the Icarus? What kind of man possesses that much hubris, that he dares it to fall?

I've stopped waiting for him to come for me. There are no s.h.i.+ps flying over the crash site. No one's looking for us here. With a jolt, I realize that by now my father must think I'm dead. There are no rescue s.h.i.+ps, so they must not know where the Icarus went down-she could have fallen out of hypers.p.a.ce anywhere in the galaxy. He already lost my mother. I've been all he's had since I was eight years old. I try to imagine him now, knowing I'm gone-and my mind just goes blank.

I wonder if the engineers who designed the Icarus are still alive, or if his vengeance has already destroyed them.

I s.h.i.+ver, tracing the shape of the logo with my fingertips, as I did countless times throughout my childhood. It would be easier not to connect this twisted heap of wreckage, this ma.s.s grave, with the flags.h.i.+p of my father's company.

I make three trips back inside the s.h.i.+p, my last lugging a pot full of spices and boxes of powdered broth. I make a fire, heat some soup, try to get Tarver to drink. He wakes up only reluctantly, and only after shoving me away in his sleep. I get a few spoonfuls of broth down him before he collapses again. I get the camp ready for the night, checking to be sure the fire isn't visible beyond our little hollow, that our belongings are all close, that Tarver's gun is at his side, where it belongs.

I lug some water from the stream nearby and use strips of the sheets to wipe his face and throat, which are burning hot to the touch. I'm afraid to unwrap his hand because I have nothing sterile with which to wrap it back up again, but the skin around the bandage is flushed red and painful-looking.

Eventually I run out of tasks and crawl into the bed beside him. He's so warm that despite the chill, it's uncomfortably hot under the blankets. Nevertheless, I slip close to him so I can feel his heartbeat and smell his scent, gra.s.s and sweat and something else I can't name. Familiar, comforting. In his sleep, his good arm curls around me, just a little.

I'm awakened in darkness by someone shoving me roughly off the makes.h.i.+ft mattress and onto the hard ground. My mind is slow to wake, and for a few moments I can only think another survivor has found us and is trying to see if we have anything worth stealing. My heart is pumping pure adrenaline, my every nerve screaming.

Then I realize it's Tarver who shoved me away. As I pick myself up I hear him murmuring to himself, and my heart leaps. He's awake. Surely this is a good sign. The sky is partially cloudy, blocking the light from the artificial mirror-moon.

I crawl toward the coals of the fire and throw on a few pieces of deadwood until it flares up, letting me see his face.

My heart sinks.

He's staring right through me, his eyes wild and gla.s.sy, and-I would've thought it impossible if I hadn't seen him above the valley with the vision of his house-afraid. His muttering is unintelligible, his lips dry and cracked.

"Tarver?" I crawl toward him. "I'll get you some water. Let me just-"

I start to reach for his forehead, to feel his temperature, when I'm suddenly knocked over, sent rolling in the dirt, my head ringing and throbbing. The stars overhead weave and waver as my vision clouds, and it's only with a monumental effort that I claw my way back toward consciousness, dizzily dragging myself back upright.

Tarver's half sitting up with his gun pointed directly at my face, though his eyes are staring into s.p.a.ce. His face is set in a snarl far more fierce than anything I could've imagined from him. The spot where the back of his hand connected with my cheek throbs and radiates heat with each pulse of my heart.

"Tarver?" It's barely a whisper.