This Shattered World (46 page)

Not yet.

Watching him, I realize something. Though he’s used Avon as his own private laboratory, practicing this art of ripping into people’s minds, it won’t end here. The thousands of soldiers affected on Avon mean nothing to him…but what of just a few minds in the right places? The President’s closest advisers; the general in charge of troop deployment; the forty-two senators that make up the Galactic Council?

I tear my gaze away from Roderick LaRoux as he continues his flowery speech to announce the resources and new infrastructure being offered by LRI—a bribe, masquerading as charity, to shrug off any public suspicion about his involvement in these events. I find I’m not the only one gazing at him with dislike, or at least with suspicion. Though we sent multiple squads through the research facility after the ceasefire, there wasn’t a single hint anywhere that LaRoux Industries was involved—even the ident chip I’d found and used to open the whispers’ prison was gone. Though the staff remained, not one of them remembered where they were or what they’d been doing for the time they’d been posted there; and not a single one still had their ident badges.

There was no reason for anyone to believe us that Roderick LaRoux was behind the madness and the secret base. The official story was that some terrorist group had camped out in the swamps and was experimenting with psychotropic drugs, and that was what had led to the open hostilities two months ago between the Fianna and the soldiers.

Still, a few did believe. Commander Towers, for one. Several of Flynn’s people. A few of my soldiers, those with more faith in me than sense. And there are rumors out there now, passed along in secret, gathering strength. Netsites claiming conspiracy theories, articles being written by anonymous authors about secret projects decades back in LaRoux Industries’ history. It’s enough that as I gaze around the room, I can see more than one stony glare among the nodding masses.

Monsieur LaRoux acts as though he’s untouchable, but I see him now.

I’ve seen the fallout from his ruthless experimentation, his obsession with controlling those around him down to their very thoughts. Alone, I’m no threat to him. One ex-soldier against a massive intergalactic corporation would be laughable odds. But Flynn sees him too, and so do others here. So do Merendsen and LaRoux’s own daughter, the daughter who can feel the whispers in her thoughts, who can sense their pain. And though Merendsen and his fiancée pretend to want nothing more than to live quietly in their house on the edge of the galaxy, I imagine us all in the center of a web of secrets and lies, searching for a way to expose Roderick LaRoux to the galaxy. If he plans to use what he’s learned from the creatures he enslaved, he’ll have to find a way to do it while all of us are watching.

Flynn and I may not have proof, but the proof is out there somewhere, and someone is going to find it. I will Roderick LaRoux to hear me, to feel the force of my certainty, but he keeps speaking as though invincible to the stares around the room.

He thinks I’m finished here, that I’ll slink off to some dark corner of the galaxy now that there’s a spotlight on Avon. He thinks I don’t still have ways to fight for this place that’s become my home.

There’s only one instance when LaRoux’s gaze falters: when it reaches Tarver and Lilac, sitting with their fingers twined together. They look back at him, as blank and courteous as if he were a stranger. His eyes stay on her, searching for a connection—and in that moment I can see another reason why a man like him might want to control minds.

Or hearts.

LaRoux finishes speaking and sits down, and the Planetary Review Board summons the first in a long line of speakers for and against Avon’s admittance to the Galactic Council. As the day wears on they call expert after expert: scientists from Terra Dynamics and the other contributing terraforming corporations; historians and sociologists specializing in colonial rebellions and reconstruction; politicians arguing about the wisdom of continuing to expand the Council to include representatives from more planets. The arguments fascinate me, the rhythm of the back-and-forth, like a dance—like a battle.

The board adjourns for lunch, and when we reconvene, Roderick LaRoux doesn’t return, and the air in the room is easier, lighter.

Commander Towers speaks, proposing a system of pardons and work exchange to bring outlaws back in from the swamps, legally, without resorting to the executions that ended the rebellion ten years ago. Flynn himself was granted such a probationary pardon; in exchange for his service to Avon as a local representative, speaking for the natives—and, less officially, helping keep the peace—he’s not being arrested for his crimes.

I won’t be asked to speak. I have no official title or insight in the eyes of the Council. But at Flynn’s insistence during the ceasefire negotiations, I was added to those present at the Planetary Review Board hearings, included in the official record. It prevents LaRoux from having me quietly erased. Flynn’s turned the spotlight on us both, and for now, we’re safe. Because everyone is watching.

Finally, the head of the board turns to Flynn. We aren’t sitting together; he’s across the room with his cousin. They’re the only two Fianna present, and a trio of guards sits conspicuously behind them, weapons across their laps. No one is forgetting the violence. But at least they’re here.

“Flynn Cormac, you are hereby asked to testify for or against Avon’s viability as an independent member of the Galactic Council.”

Flynn stands slowly. I can see no signs of hesitation or nervousness. I’d rather stare down a line of loaded weapons trained on my face than this council, but he gazes back at the row of men and women arrayed before him without fear. Without uncertainty.

“Thank you,” he begins. Though he pauses before continuing, it’s a pregnant pause, not so much a hesitation as an invitation. It makes me want to lean closer, to hang on what he’s about to say. “My people and I are called a lot of things. Rebels and Fianna; terrorists and patriots; criminals and martyrs. And all of those things have been true at times over the last ten years. But if this long journey has shown us anything, it’s proven that we are fighters.”

His eyes sweep across the representatives from the Galactic Council, lighting on each of them in turn. “We fight for our home with whatever weapons we have. And if you let us, we will fight for it with hard work and passion, and devotion to this planet. You could not ask for a people more dedicated to making Avon what it was destined to be. If we’re only given the chance, we’ll prove to the galaxy we’re worthy of it.”

It’s a struggle to tear my eyes from his face, but I glance over at the Council representatives as he continues to speak, laying out a vision for the Avon he’s always dreamed of, the planet he believes in. They’re well trained by galactic politics to maintain their granite-like expressions at all times, so it’s impossible to tell whether Flynn’s passion is reaching them at all. But while I watch, I see a tiny, nearly imperceptible shift—as though the man at the end is nodding to himself, just a little.

It’ll take weeks of deliberation before the review board makes a final decision about Avon. And there’s nothing to do until then except wait. Wait, and rebuild; because decision or not, it’s a new Avon beginning here, and this is the chance we’ve been fighting for.

I find myself lingering when the board adjourns for the night, gathering up my papers slowly, watching as the soldiers and locals and government officials and reps from TerraDyn and the other corporations all mingle on their way out the doors. I keep my eyes on them, though I know they’re not the reason I’m hanging back.

An arm snakes around my waist, a voice murmuring in my ear, “Are we still on for tomorrow morning?”

I don’t fight the foolish smile that creeps across my features as I turn to face Flynn. “I had something else in mind. Can we do breakfast another day?” He’s still careful to avoid brushing my arm in its sling, and I can see his eyes lingering on it. A few inches over and the bullet would’ve perforated my heart instead of passing through my shoulder. As it is, I’ll be out of the sling in another week.

“Sure.” Flynn’s head tips to the side, his curiosity piqued. “What’s the new idea?”

“You’ll see.”

I meet him just before dawn the next day—with every hour we’re not at the hearing tied up in reconstruction meetings, this is the only time we can steal. We head out together, taking it slow as we move across the muddy base compound. I still have to remind myself that I don’t need to watch for anyone who might recognize Flynn, blow his cover, realize I’m harboring a fugitive—because he’s not anymore. And I’m not either. I thought it would be impossible to connect Jubilee with Captain Lee Chase, to merge the two into one life, but more and more it doesn’t seem like they’re different people after all. At least now I have time to figure it out.

I nod to the guard at the north gate, and we pick our way over the spongy ground beyond. It’s not as wet here as it is elsewhere, but water still collects in the dips and wallows of the land, making the footing treacherous, especially in the dim light of the predawn.

Half a klick away I can see the new construction site, where the town hall and the school are coming together. Sean’s taken us through the site twice already—Flynn jokes that he wants to supervise every nail that’s hammered into
his
school, but we both understand. He’s part of the group who will create our classrooms and teach our history. And for now, it’s a place for him to pour in enough effort every day that he can sleep every night, while he waits for his own healing to begin.

It’s about ten minutes of hiking after we leave town to reach the start of the hills and find more solid ground.

We trek up, and I pause to look around and get my bearings—then head for the one landmark I know, the one the soldiers on the base used to call Traitor’s Bluff. I don’t tell Flynn that, though. Instead, I come to a halt, and he comes up beside me.

“So why here?” he asks, looking around as if half expecting me to have prepared some kind of picnic or other surprise.

I take a deep breath, slowly turning until the breeze is at my back. There’s a faint hint of orange to the east—anywhere else, the last stars would be disappearing overhead. Instead there’s only the dim inky blackness of Avon’s overcast skies.

“You told me that when your sister was executed, they didn’t even return her ashes to you.”

I can feel Flynn stiffen beside me, his grief still real, still present. I swallow, suddenly unsure. But it’s too late now to go back, so I push through.

“This is it. This is where her ashes were scattered. This hill.”

I risk a glance at him and see him gazing out across the lightening landscape, his lips parted, brows furrowed. I can’t read him in this half-light, can’t tell what’s going on behind those artistic features.

“I—I wish I could have given you something real, something you could hold or see, but it’s not policy for us to keep the remains. I researched it to make sure, and this is where—”

“No.” Flynn’s voice is hoarse, his eyes distant. “No, this is beautiful. Thank you.”

I feel the bands of nervous tension easing a little. I step closer to him, reaching for his arm so I can slide my fingers through his. “We had no right to keep her from you.” I press my lips to the fabric of his jacket, over his shoulder. “I know it’s not much, but at least you know now.”

“It’s everything.” He turns and wraps his arms around me, head dropping, cheek warm alongside mine. “Thank you, Jubilee.”

We stand that way for a time, unmoving in the chill, letting the dawn gather itself to sweep across the landscape. Finally, Flynn pulls away enough to run a hand down my arm and take my hand again.

“So tell me about that dream you had.” He gives my hand a gentle tug, summoning me down to sit on the grass beside him so we can watch the sunrise paint the clouds.

I lean back on my elbows. “Did you ever want to be an explorer when you were little?”

I go on to tell him my other dreams; small dreams and big dreams, realistic and nonsensical dreams. Snatches of Avon, of Verona, of different times and places. Of my parents, my fellow soldiers, of my November ghost, the shining light that I now know was the whisper.

I tell him how in every dream, he was there. He kisses my temple, and laughs softly when he hears my breath catch, and tells me he always will be there.

We talk about ten years of dreams stolen by that lonely creature, forgotten, coming back to me now a little each night. Flynn’s laughter rings through the hills, carried on the night air, mingling with my own. Flynn told me once he thought his sister would have liked me; I like to think she’d be happy, hearing him laugh. Watching a former soldier and a former rebel sit together in the gathering dawn.

Our voices rise, and fall, and fall again. The silences are comfortable, warm despite the chill in the air. We gaze upward, and for a long moment, neither of us realizes what we’re seeing: an odd spark of light, high above where the clouds are still indigo, like landing lights or my will-o’-the-wisp in the sky. Except this light’s not moving.

Then the light vanishes with a swirl of cloud, and I gasp. “Flynn, did you see that?”

“I saw it,” he says, puzzled, “but I don’t—”

“It was a star,” I whisper.

Flynn’s reaction is electric, for all he only moves an inch, straightening, gaze fixed on the sky overhead. Though his eyes are on the clouds, I can’t help but watch his silhouette in the darkness. The way his mouth is set, the hope and determination there—the strength in his shoulders, the energy in the way he gazes skyward. The breeze stirs his hair, and I find myself transfixed.

I think of my answer when the tortured soul in that prison underground asked me if I was in love with Flynn. I didn’t know, then, but more than anything I wanted the chance to find out. A chance without wars and blood feuds and madness everywhere on this shattered world—a chance where we could just be us.
This
chance.

“What does it mean?” Flynn turns to gaze at me, eyes finally meeting mine.