These Broken Stars Part 8

I'm recoiling almost before I have time to register what he's suggesting. "No. Tarver, no. I won't."

He rubs a hand across his eyes, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead. "Please don't argue with me. You can't possibly make it much farther wearing those monstrosities." He jerks his chin at my feet, mostly hidden by their coc.o.o.ns of tape, nestled inside the ruins of my Delacours.

This isn't about practicality, though. My skin crawls and I shut my eyes. "Please," I whisper. "I can't wear a dead woman's shoes. Please, please don't make me." My stomach roils, nauseous despite being empty.

I'm braced for one of his sarcastic remarks, designed to get me moving before my brain kicks in, like I'm one of his soldiers. Instead there's a light touch against my chin, startlingly gentle, and I open my eyes in surprise.

"If they could, these people would tell you to take what you can," he says quietly, crouching next to me with one hand on the ground for balance and the other outstretched, urging me to lift my head. "They can't use these things anymore. We can. I don't know how you've walked so far without decent shoes, but that, at least, can change now. I believe that rescue is coming, but we have to be in a place they'll find us. I'm not going to leave you behind, but that means you've got to do what you can to keep up."

The dizziness sweeps on past me, leaving me drained and tired, but no longer about to throw up. "I'm trying."

His sudden grin is as startling as the gentle summons to lift my head. "Believe me, I know. Come on, let's see if they fit."

No wonder he managed to take the remnants of an intelligence outpost on Patron and lead them to safety. There's not a person in the central planets who hasn't heard tales of his heroism, but no one actually believes in the stories that come from the border-suddenly I see in the man in front of me the qualities of the Major Merendsen, war hero. He could probably lead water uphill if he wanted to.

Later, when he's helped to cut my feet out of the tangle of tape and ruined shoe, and laced me up in the boots (he didn't mention having to wear a dead woman's socks as well), we share a drink from the canteen. Together we carry the rocks I've gathered over to the site of the crash. The grave is one long mound, no way to tell how many are buried beneath it, and I don't ask. We scatter the stones over the top as markers. I don't need to investigate the pod to know that its beacon isn't working-a whole side of the wreck is destroyed, circuits exposed and scorched where it was torn from the Icarus when it hit the atmosphere. These people were probably dead before the pod even broke away from the s.h.i.+p. It's a first-cla.s.s pod; I have no idea where the boots came from. Maybe a few soldiers were mixed in with society in the chaos.

Suddenly I wonder if Anna was among its occupants. Would Tarver have recognized her? Perhaps all of us are only blurs of color and hairstyles to him, one rich person very much like the next. Even if he had recognized her-would he have told me?

"Could I say something?" I say, surprising myself.

He blinks and looks over at me as he s.h.i.+fts one of the stones and straightens. "Go ahead."

"I mean-alone. To them." I tilt my head toward the grave.

"Oh," he says, looking down at the disturbed earth and stone. "Of course. I'll be up at the tree line when you're ready to keep moving."

I listen to his footsteps moving away, my eyes on the stones I've gathered and placed. Always, my ears are tuned for the sounds of engines, the whine of a flyover jet, the hum of hovercraft. But they never come. It's always this silence. A world of quiet broken only by my footsteps and Tarver's, and the whispering of the woods.

I know he has no reason to lie. Still, it's hard to connect the long mound with the reality of people resting beneath it, actual flesh and bone. The sky is as empty as it always is-the world is quiet. My ears pick out the wind, the sighing of the leaves, the distant chirp of a bird. The stillness of an undisturbed wilderness. I can't help but wonder how long it'll take for the gra.s.s and the trees to consume these graves-how long until it's impossible to tell anyone ever rested here.

How long until we too are swallowed up?

"I don't know who any of you are," I whisper, eyes blurring with sudden tears. "I wish I did. I wish I could keep pretending none of this is real. That my father will swoop down, pick everyone up, and everything will go back to normal. That this is all some terrible dream."

I crouch, reaching out to lay a hand against the stones warming in the sunlight streaming through the clearing. The surface is rough and smooth at once, irregular but soothing. Nothing like the stones in our gardens, polished and placed with perfect artistic balance. I'm hungry and tired, and there's sweat rolling down my back. Tears drip from my chin, splattering against the stone, leaving uneven patches of darkness against the gray rock.

"I could have fit a lot more people in that maintenance pod. Maybe it could have been you. I'm sorry."

I straighten and look back, toward where Tarver waits at the tree line, adjusting his pack. From here the trek to the Icarus seems endless-I can't even see the mountains, much less the plains, or the rest of the forest that lies between us and our only chance at rescue. Maybe it would have been better to have died in this crashed pod. Easier than dying slowly out here, alone but for this man who hates me, so far from the one person who cares about me. Fear, icy and sickening, roils in my stomach.

Tarver lifts his head as if sensing my gaze across the distance between us. If he heard any of what I said, he gives no indication, merely hefting his pack and inclining his head to suggest we get moving.

I swallow, glancing down once last time at the freshly dug graves. "I think you might've been the lucky ones."

We walk.

My feet are nothing but a dull ache as Tarver marches me through the woods. He takes my hand sometimes to help me over logs and rocks and lifts me over the creek when we cross it. Other times he makes me drink from the canteen. I let him, because what else can I do? The day morphs into eternity, a nightmare from which I cannot wake. As the hours stretch on, not even the sounds of the forest make me jump. I see nothing but the ground before my feet. I cannot turn back because there is no back, only the next step, and the one after, and the one after that.

I used to think that my name would always keep me safe. That those two words-Lilac LaRoux-would be the only pa.s.sword I needed no matter where I ended up.

I had been so sure my father was coming for me, but now it's hard to find that certainty. This is a wilderness waiting to swallow me; I'd barely make a dent trying to fight it. There are no rules for me to learn, no points to be scored, no bluffs to be called. This is a h.e.l.l I've never imagined.

And I think I'm going to die here.

"Nothing of note happened when you camped that night?"

"If you'd tell me what kind of thing of note you're wondering about, I'm sure I could be more help."

"Are you saying that nothing unusual happened?"

"Nothing at all."

THIRTEEN.

TARVER.

THE CAMPFIRE'S DOWN TO COALS when I wake. my eyes snap open, and as always, there's that brief moment of disorientation as I soak in everything around me, wait to know where I am.

This time it doesn't take long to remember. Our camp is near the end of the woods and the start of the plains. I built the fire up high before we slept, still thinking of the monster that nearly killed Lilac.

I roll over onto my back to find her blocking out the unfamiliar stars, standing above me like a ghost in the night. Something must have prompted her to come around to my side of the campfire-she's still insisting on separation-and I'm reaching for my Gleidel as I blink up at her.

"Miss LaRoux?" I ask, quiet and careful. I don't want to give her a fright and get a kick for my troubles. a.s.suming she's real at all, looming up there like a specter. Even as a ghost, she's something to see.

"Major, there's somebody out there," she whispers. "Can you hear? There's a woman crying out there in the trees."

A s.h.i.+ver of apprehension runs through me, and I tilt my head to one side, surprised the noise didn't wake me. As far as I can tell, there's nothing to break the silence. I s.h.i.+ft and sit up, noticing I've still got my boots on. I think I remember deciding to sleep in them.

"There it is again, Major," she insists, still soft.

"I can't hear it," I whisper, stretching my protesting muscles.

Her eyes widen as though she's having trouble believing that's true.

"What direction?"

She lifts a hand to point unhesitatingly toward where the trees give way to the plains, and I climb to my feet, reaching out to scoop up my grab bag and sling it over one shoulder. Oldest trick in the book-lure folks away from their fire, then swipe their stuff. I've done it myself more than once, stuck out on the border planets, pitched against the latest colonist rebellion. If they're lurking out in the woods and not approaching us directly, I don't trust them.

It's my turn to lift my hand, and I raise a finger to my lips to signal she should be silent. She nods and follows as I ease away from the fire.

Once we're a short distance from the flames, I pause in the shadows, looking back at her. Miss LaRoux is focused on the task at hand, not even seeming to register discomfort from her bare feet. I tilt my head at her. What about now? Hear anything?

She shakes her head, perplexed, neat brows drawn together. "She's stopped," she whispers. "She sounded like she might have been hurt, Major. She could be unconscious now."

I open my mouth to reply-or she could be a trap-but I don't get a word out. Miss LaRoux's decided to take matters into her own hands.

"h.e.l.lo," she calls out, stepping away from the tree. "Are you-"

She gets no further than that. She only makes it to three words because I'm so appalled it takes me a few moments to mobilize. I lunge, clamping a hand over her mouth and hauling her in against me, holding her tighter than I should. She makes a m.u.f.fled sound, then goes still, frightened and tense. We stand like statues, straining to listen. I keep hold of her, and despite the danger, there's a part of my mind that insists on noticing her closeness, her body pulled against mine.

Out in the woods, there's no sound. Not the snap of a twig, not the brush of one branch against another.

Very slowly, she presses a finger against my hand in a silent request to be released. I ease my grip an inch or two and she breathes out. I tuck my chin to whisper in her ear. "Still hearing her?"

She shakes her head a fraction, leaning up to whisper in mine, breath tickling my skin. "Nothing. What if she's pa.s.sed out? She could be hurt, she could be-"

I know what she really means. She could be one of her friends. She could be one of those girls who looked at me like some kind of specimen. If she exists at all. I can't believe that in a place like this, with my every nerve on edge, I could have slept through what woke Lilac. It's more likely she woke herself from a dream. Still, there's only one way to be sure.

"Stay here," I whisper, my cheek brus.h.i.+ng against hers. She's still flushed with sleep and her skin's warm, so much smoother than mine. I'm sure she's never encountered anything as uncultured as a guy in need of a shave before. But she only nods in silent understanding. She's shaking violently, and I realize she's left her blanket behind. I take off my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders, and she sinks down to sit in the shadow of the tree to wait.

It's not the worst night of my life. I'm sure that prize will forever belong to a particular night on Avon. The whole platoon, me included, were so green we were practically sprouting leaves, and the night's entertainment was a group of rebels with an oversupply of pulse lasers. Not a nice thing on watery ground. To top it off, I missed a date with one of the local girls, and it's not like recruits get a lot of those lined up.

Still, on my list of worst nights, this comes close.

It's almost impossible to move through the undergrowth without making a sound, with great th.o.r.n.y arms reaching up to tangle in the fabric of my pants, and dry twigs concealed under the leaf litter waiting to crack and snap like bones breaking in the dark. On any other planet I'd be confident, but here I know anything could hurt me, anything could be just a little different from the way it's supposed to be. I'm forced to move forward a fraction at a time, with frustrating slowness. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, and I'm alive because I'm not in the habit of ignoring that.

I pa.s.s by Lilac three times in the first hour of searching. She's obediently huddled at the base of the tree, wrapped in my jacket, her legs tucked up inside it. She insists she can still hear the voice. I stand in the shadow of a tree and look out across the moonlit plain, in the direction she swears the voice is moving. Except that there's nothing there, and even the smallest critter would cast a shadow by the light of the two moons.

When I return to her a fourth time she shakes her head at me-the noise is gone. She seems so small inside my jacket, but I can tell she's trying to look like she's bearing up well. She doesn't want me to stop searching.

I hold up a hand to warn her to remain in place, and she nods as I back away from her. Time to try a different approach. I walk fifty painstaking paces, then settle with my back against a tree, the Gleidel in my hand on full charge. "Is anybody out there? We're friends." My voice splits the silence. n.o.body within a klick could have missed it. Lilac and I both stay frozen in place, listening as our heartbeats count away the seconds. Nothing.

So I resume my search. It's another hour of wading through the undergrowth and past the smooth-trunked trees before I have to concede that if there's somebody out here, I'm not finding her until daylight.

I make my way back to where Lilac, miraculously, is actually dozing against the tree. She was trembling for hours-the strain must have finally worn her down. She starts when I crouch down beside her, and blinks at me apologetically-or it could be apology, anyway, and I choose to believe it is. I don't need to tell her we're staying away from the campfire, which s.h.i.+nes in the darkness like a beacon to anything with sinister intentions that might be out there.

I ease in to sit beside her, Gleidel in hand. She's still half asleep, and she s.h.i.+fts her weight to settle her head against my shoulder. Looks like I've been promoted from the other side of the fire, for one night only. I wrap an arm around her, and with her leaning against me-small and warm and alive-I tip my head back to rest it against the tree trunk.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself awake, fighting the urge to lean my head on hers, and settle in to wait for dawn.

"So then you made your way across the plains toward the mountains?"

"That's correct."

"What were your thoughts at that stage?"

"It was clear we were unlikely to find other survivors, but I remained alert. I didn't expect them to be kindly disposed toward a LaRoux, if they were around."

"Why was that?"

"Her father built the s.h.i.+p we'd been on. Terraforming companies are rarely popular with the colonists, and you know as well as I do that Central sends in the troops to back up the corporations' rights. Colonists hate us, too."

"Did you have any other thoughts?"

"I was beginning to wonder why we weren't seeing rescue flyovers."

"Did you mention that to Miss LaRoux?"

"No."

FOURTEEN.

LILAC.

"TELL ME AGAIN WHAT YOU HEARD," he asks for the eighteenth time after we complete another of his ever-expanding search perimeters around our campsite. In the light of morning, it's hard to keep insisting that what happened was real.

"It was a woman crying. She sounded desperate, afraid, maybe hurt, I'm not sure. She sounded-" But I cut myself off, pressing my lips together.

"She sounded?" he prompts, leaning back against a tree.

"She sounded like me," I finish, realizing how the words sound-even worse than I'd expected.

He's silent for a while, scanning the forest. "Right," he says after a few moments, pus.h.i.+ng off from the tree and leaning down to retrieve his pack. "If there was someone here last night-"

He pauses a moment, as if expecting me to say something. I want to interrupt, insist I heard what I heard, but something keeps me quiet. I've lost the right, if I ever had it, to protest his declarations. I'd die out here if it weren't for him.

When I remain silent, he continues. "At any rate, she's gone now. We need to keep moving. How are your feet?"

Maybe I did invent her. The admission, even to myself, causes an uneasy tension to settle throughout my shoulders. But I have no choice. If he's decided it's time to move on, then I have to move on with him. The worst part is that I have to admit that he's right. There's no sign of anyone here, no trampled earth, not even a snapped twig to show that someone pa.s.sed by.

"They're fine," I mumble, despite the throb from the matching blisters on my heels at the reminder.

"Once we're out onto the plains, we can find a place to rest, stop a little earlier today. Neither of us is going to have much stamina after such an interrupted night."

I know he means that I won't have much stamina. My jaw tightens in protest, and for an instant I want to retort. But then my ears fill with the memory of a cat's hunting snarl, and I smell the burning fur and the blood and I close my eyes.

The voice was moving toward the plains, which is the direction Tarver proposes to hike in order to reach the wreck. Perhaps if we just start moving, we'll be able to track down whomever I heard.

"Fine."

Silence from Tarver, which stretches long enough that I'm forced to open my eyes again. He's watching me with an odd expression on his face, one I can't read-his eyes aren't quite on mine. With a start, I realize I'm still wearing the jacket he wrapped around my shoulders last night.