This Shattered World (34 page)

I intended to go look for Merendsen and tell him what I heard so we can try to put the pieces together. Instead I find myself heading for Molly’s. With personnel on duty around the clock, it’s always open. I try telling myself it’s because I want the comfort of a crowd, but I know that’s not why I’m going there. I try telling myself it’s because I want Flynn’s input on what’s going on, hoping he has some rational explanation for what I saw.

But I know the real reason my feet are taking me his way, and I’m not proud. I’m terrified, and for the first time since I was eight years old, I just want someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.

I’m halfway there, my thoughts whirling, my eyes blurring with exhaustion and fear, when my nose starts burning; I recognize the choking, acrid smell of smoke. Something, somewhere, is on fire.

My head snaps up. I can see thick black smoke billowing up in the distance, and automatically I break into a sprint. It could be any number of buildings over on that side of the base; there are a couple barracks there, a few supply sheds, even the munitions depot. But disastrous as that would be, somehow I know it’s not.

God, no. Please no.

I’m barely aware of the distance elapsing between me and Molly’s—it’s not even a shock when I burst out from between two barracks to see the bar in flames. I keep running, stopped only when someone grabs my jacket and hauls me back, my momentum knocking me to the ground.

Scrambling in the mud to find my feet again, I’m lurching toward the burning bar when those same arms grab hold of me again.

“Chase!” shouts a dim voice in my ear. “You can’t go in there!”

“There could be people in there!” I scream, my voice breaking as I struggle to get free.

“If they are, they’re dead, and you can’t help them!” It’s Captain Biltmore, and he’s not letting me go. “Get ahold of yourself, Captain!” he snaps.

When he lets go of me I fall again, and this time it’s enough to jar me free of my desperate need to get inside. I stare at the flames, my thoughts grinding to a halt. There’s no sign of Flynn anywhere. I can’t think, can’t feel. There’s no room for grief—I don’t understand it yet, can’t accept it. Not like this.

My heart empties.

I can hear the shouts of the emergency crews, the coordinated efforts of the firefighters, getting the blaze under control before it can spread to any other buildings. A beam crashes down, sending a torrent of flames and sparks shooting skyward. The windows have all shattered from the inferno, and through an empty frame I can see the outline of the bar, red-hot against my eyes. Every breath scorches the inside of my nose with the smell of burning chemicals. Absurdly I think of Molly’s antique jukebox, its red and gold plastic melting in the heat, its memory banks full of old Earth music reduced to nothing more than melted circuitry and noxious fumes.

Someone knocks into me, making me stumble and driving the image out of my mind. Catching my balance, I see a couple of medics hauling a stretcher out of the smoke, laden with a body wrapped in a sheet.

It’s a large person—too large to be Flynn. In an instant I understand who it is and shove past Biltmore.

“What happened?” I snap to the medics, reaching for the sheet. “If it’s just smoke inhalation, maybe he’s not—”

“No, Captain, he’s dead. Please, don’t—” One of the medics tries to intercept me, but I’m stronger than he is, and I shove him aside so I can get at the sheet and haul it down.

There’s Molly’s face, calm and lax. It looks like he’s sleeping, or like he’s faking somehow. But then I see the blood, the scorch marks against his shaven scalp. I lean down and realize part of his skull’s been blown away in the back.

Everything around me slows. Dimly, I hear the medics saying things. He was dead before the fire started. Shot, and with one of our own weapons. The bolt came from a high angle, suggesting he was made to kneel before he was killed. Executed.

When I lift my eyes from Molly’s face, they fall on a pair of soldiers dragging someone away, a middle-aged man struggling and shouting curses.

“Who’s that?” My voice comes out quiet, cold. Very calm. Good.

The closest medic glances at me, then at the man being dragged away. “One of the bastards responsible,” he answers. “They think it was a whole crew that snuck in somehow, but he’s the only one they caught. Gonna interrogate him.”

My heart fills again, rage taking over as the whole world narrows down to the man being dragged away. The man responsible. They won’t need to interrogate him officially—I intend to find out everything myself, no matter the cost. I pull my gun from its holster and slip quietly after him and his escort, steps quickening.

I’ll find whoever did this, and I’ll tear them apart.

The girl is drowsing, up past her bedtime, listening to the click of imitation ivory as her mother stirs the mah jong tiles. She’s curled up with her blanket under the felted table, surrounded by her mother’s friends on all sides.

A tile etched with the picture of a chrysanthemum falls to the floor, and a rumbling voice says, “I’ll get it.” An arm descends over the edge of the table, and the girl stares—it’s covered in tattoos, more than she’s ever seen in one place.

The adults chat as the girl’s mother deals, and the low hum of voices nearly lulls the girl to sleep.

“Who will watch the store while I’m gone?” her mother is asking.

“I can do that,” says the man with the tattoos.

“And when you’re gone? Who will watch her then?”

I’M WATCHING FROM AN ALLEYWAY
between a barracks and the munitions shed, leaning against the hard wall and forcing myself to breathe. I can’t make out who it is they’re hauling away, and I can’t see Molly’s huge silhouette anywhere, and I can’t do anything but stand here, hands curled into fists, and wait. If my people did this, and they see me, all hell will break loose. More people will die.

When Jubilee stalks past, I’m so fixed on the flames I nearly miss her. I reach out to grab her arm and swing her in toward me, reflecting in the same split second that she’ll probably break my nose for this. I’m sure if she were any less shocked, she would. Instead, I catch a glimpse of something wild in her eyes, of a soot-stained hand lifting to reach for me, and I duck. “Jubilee, it’s me.”

With a wordless sound, her face stricken, she jerks back from me and stumbles to crash into the barracks wall. The jolt makes her look up, her gaze focusing with an effort—and then she sees me, her heart in her eyes. The gun she’s gripping goes clattering into the mud. Her hands grab for my arms, grasping at my sleeves and pulling me closer, as though she has to convince herself I’m real. “Flynn?” she whispers.

The mix of anguish and relief on her face has me moving before I can think to stop myself, and I pull her in against me so I can wrap my arms around her. She holds me just as tightly, and for a moment we stand there together, unmoving, as the chaos beyond the mouth of the alley unspools.

“I thought you—” she rasps, easing a half an inch away, shaken by the intensity of her own reaction.

I’m a little shaky myself, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I was on my way to the supply shed when I heard the shouts. Where’s Molly? He was in there when I left, I should—”

My words die in my throat as the look on her face delivers the news. Our hands fall apart, and I have to brace against the munitions shed to stop my knees from giving out.

“They caught one of the rebels who did it.” She turns toward the mouth of the alley. “The others escaped. I was heading to interrogation, they’re taking him—”

“Get me in there,” I interrupt, urgency making my voice stumble. “Maybe I can convince him to talk. Offer him a deal.”

“He’s a murderer, Flynn,” she snaps, her grief over her friend turning white-hot. She retrieves her gun from the ground, her face grim. “He doesn’t get a deal, he gets justice.”

“And if he’s one of McBride’s men? What if he knows what they’re planning next?” I can’t imagine any of my people starting the fire. It has to have been a mistake. “Please.”

She knows I’m right, but the desire for vengeance runs almost as deep. I watch her struggle, feeling it echo deep within my own heart; whoever killed my people is still out there too. Finally, shoving her Gleidel back into its holster, she murmurs, “Don’t promise him anything.”

When we reach the holding cells, she sends away the guard with a couple of snapped orders. The nervous corporal looks at me but doesn’t stop me from following before he vanishes. Perhaps he hopes I’ll stop her from killing the prisoner.

My heart sinks when I see who’s huddled on the bench in the corner of the room. It’s Turlough Doyle, his mop of blond hair turned gray with ash, his eyes red with smoke and grief. He was only ever in the swamps because his sister sabotaged one of the algae farms, and the trodairí wouldn’t stop coming by to ask him where she was, more forcefully every time. Then he met Mike, and he had reason to stay. But he’s no blood-soaked rebel. He used to be a biology assistant.

His head’s down, exhaustion and fear taking their toll. Jubilee doesn’t hesitate, slamming the cell door behind us. “Who did this?” she snarls, stalking over to meet him eye to eye.

She was too blinded by shock and the Fury in the caves to recognize the man widowed by the massacre. But Turlough remembers her. When he lifts his head, his eyes fix on her face with a single-minded hatred that makes my heart freeze. “You’re going to kill me anyway, trodaire.” He spits the word. “I won’t help you kill anyone else.”

“You tell me,” she spits right back, “or you’re goddamn right I’m going to kill you, and I’ll make it last. Which one of you killed Molly?”

Turlough sucks in a shaky breath, his round face losing all color—from fear or rage, I can’t tell. “Me. I acted alone.”

“You didn’t,” she shouts, voice cracking. “Those burn marks on his skull, only a Gleidel does that. You’re carrying an antique.”

“
You
carry a Gleidel,” he shoots back. “You killed our people, our children.” His gaze pins her now, eyes boring into hers. “You killed my
husband
. I hope you rot in hell.”

My brain’s still stuttering, and I’m pinned against the wall by the door, unnoticed by either of them. Molly was
shot
? I find my own stomach twisting with grief.

Jubilee stares back at him, and I know by her silence that she’s recognized him. Then she squares her shoulders. She doesn’t bother to deny his accusation, and I ache for her, but I know why. What could she possibly say that he’d believe? “I’m giving you one more chance, rebel. Names. Now.”

Turlough just glares, terrified but determined. Only grief could give such a gentle man this kind of strength. Another time, I’d almost be proud of him for showing so much spine. Now, Jubilee’s going to rip it out if I don’t do something. I step away from the door and into the light. Turlough’s gaze slides past Jubilee, and his mouth falls open as he recognizes me. “What are you doing here?” His whisper is like a bullet straight through me. “She
killed Mike
,” he goes on, voice rising to a ragged shout, “and you’re standing next to her.”

“It wasn’t her. I give you my word. She was there, but she didn’t do it.”

He watches me in silence, making me wonder if my word holds any value for him now. Beside me, I can hear Jubilee’s harsh breathing, keeping time with the pounding of my own heart. If Turlough can trust me, then I can believe Sean might. I can believe the gulf between us might close, that we might be able to grieve together.

My voice is soft. “Where’s McBride, Turlough?”

His expression flickers, the grief and anger giving way to a quick, icy flash of fear. “I don’t know,” he says tightly. But his loyalty is brittle, that terror more real than anything he’s shown Jubilee.

“You’re afraid of him,” I say softly. “Tell me.”

He hesitates, gaze flicking from me to Jubilee and back again. “He shot him,” Turlough gasps finally. “The bartender, the big one. We went in looking for Captain Chase—we were only going to scare people until someone told us where to find her.”

“Go on.” Jubilee’s expression is unreadable, her anger draining away to something else, something cold.

“McBride kept screaming at the guy, over and over. The guy wouldn’t tell us where to find you, trodaire. So McBride shot him and set fire to—” His voice catches, fear making it difficult for him to speak. But when Jubilee turns away, her shoulders tense, Turlough’s grief surges again. “She was
there
, Flynn. Everybody knows it. She has to pay.”

I feel like there’s a weight on my chest. “I know she was there, but her weapon was never fired.”

“Well, those people—Mike, the others—they weren’t killed by ordinary gunfire. It had to be a Gleidel. Who else has a weapon like that, except a soldier?”

Suddenly the room’s silent. Jubilee’s looking up, and the same realization hits all three of us. The bottom drops out of the world, and my skin’s all pins and needles as a wave of dizziness sweeps over me. We all know who has that kind of weapon, because he just used it to shoot Molly in the back of the head.