by Erin Bowman
“And your father?” Nova prodded. “You?”
The pilot was glaring at her in a way that set off warnings in the back of Amber’s mind. In the past, plenty of people had questioned Amber’s inability to pick a side, but she had no problem defending it. She held nothing against pro-unity people and understood their logic, just as she understood why the Radicals wanted independence, which was precisely why the Trios had been in a stalemate for decades.
“Are you pro-independence?” Nova asked, eyes still boring into Amber.
“My father is,” she said. “I’m undecided.”
“What’s to be undecided about? If the Trios is independent, we’ll go belly-up. Our access to the best medicine, ships, education? It’ll all be cut off, or at least made so expensive we’ll never be able to afford it.” Amber must have let something slip on her expression because Nova’s eyes narrowed as she added, “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Enrichment Year. Only some of us won’t be able to afford it. You know, the less fortunate ones.”
“You should work on your calves now,” Amber said, desperate to change the subject. She repositioned the band so that Nova could work her lower legs.
“What are the Radicals even after?” Nova went on. “Clearly Hevetz pulled Burke in to rescue Black Quarry. He deliberately went to a Radical friend over Galactic Disease Control, which would mean . . .” Her face went blank. “Last night, your father asked about my friends’ abilities. What abilities?”
“I don’t know,” Amber said.
“He implied that they could host what everyone else in Black Quarry couldn’t, but that doesn’t make any sense. You’re sure they didn’t have nosebleeds when you saw them being relocated? Blood-filled eyes?”
“No,” Amber insisted. “Nothing like that.” Just that morning, her father had mentioned that Nova’s lack of nosebleed was a promising sign. But Thea and Coen didn’t have nosebleeds either, and they were being studied while Nova was all but ignored. “What the hell happened on Achlys?”
Nova didn’t break eye contact. “Find out what happened to my friends, and I’ll tell you.”
When they returned to their cells, every millimeter of Thea was sore. She relished the pain and tightness, knowing it would be gone by morning, just another reminder that she was a thing in the eyes of Burke and his crew. A thing they longed to replicate.
“Clean clothes,” the guard said, dropping them at her feet. He was wearing a mask, because the gas had begun to fill her cell now. She stared at the lump of white clothing at her feet, her senses slowing. The collar clinked loose. The cap was lifted from her head.
When the gas wore off, she was alone in the room, slumped beside the fresh clothing.
She shook them out—clean leggings and a tank top—wishing she’d been allowed a trip to the locker room again before being locked in for the night. There was a small wash sink and toilet in the corner of her cell, sheltered from view by a smartly angled, shoulder-high wall. But a sink wasn’t a shower. And the wall didn’t provide much privacy, regardless. She could wash her hair now, at least, but she knew that Burke and Farraday were probably watching everything, observing her interactions with Coen, listening. She was again struck by how her wants meant nothing here. Her desire for privacy was meaningless compared to Burke’s desire for answers.
We can both turn our backs, Coen said, retrieving his own set of fresh clothes from the floor.
Thanks. He’d heard her wish for privacy. She had to get better at protecting her thoughts.
What else would I do, sit here and leer at you the whole time?
I would kick your ass in the ring tomorrow if you did.
You could try, he said with a smile.
Let me rephrase that: I’d elbow you so hard you’d bruise. At least for a minute or two.
Another smile. Then he grabbed his clothes and moved to his wash station. Let me know when you’re done.
Even knowing they had their backs to each other, Thea felt exposed. She washed her hair first, then stripped down quickly. After splashing fresh water on her face and limbs, she toweled off and yanked the new clothing on.
All set, she told him. You?
More or less.
She turned around and froze. If “more or less” meant “I’m half dressed,” Coen’s response was accurate. He was still standing at the sink, wearing only his pants and using a towel to dry his hair.
She couldn’t tear her eyes from his bare torso. His tattoo was nothing like she’d imagined.
Now that it was fully visible, she could see it wasn’t a simple organic design like she’d assumed, but an exquisitely detailed and intricate illustration of an octopus. The creature was positioned along Coen’s side, with its arms fanning onto his back and chest. Two coiled up and over his shoulder, ending on Coen’s collarbone and neck. These two tendrils were all she’d seen on Achlys, a mere fraction of the actual tattoo peeking into view at the shirt collar.
“Sorry,” she murmured aloud, so stunned that the word slipped from her mouth. “You said you were more or less done, so I turned around. I didn’t realize . . .” She trailed off, watching the octopus writhe and squirm as Coen finished drying his hair.
“You’re staring,” Coen said. His voice was deeper aloud than it ever seemed in her head. Rougher, too.
She pulled her eyes up to meet his. “I don’t mean to. It’s just . . .” Thea looked back at the tattoo. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Gina drew it. She’s so damn talented. Wants to study illustration when she gets to uni.”
The ink was black, but the creature had been shaded meticulously, giving it shape and life on Coen’s tan skin. He pulled his hair back, securing half of it at his crown, and a ripple moved through the octopus as muscles in his torso stretched.
“Did you know the octopus is the most intelligent invertebrate in the ocean? One of the most intelligent animals, period?”
Thea nodded. There’d been a period in middle school where she was obsessed with the sea. She’d watched about a thousand marine vids at the local library with Mel, marveling at the ocean’s ecosystem. One documentary focused specifically on octopuses and how they could learn by observation, opening jars and boxes to reach food.
“It can camouflage itself and fit into impossibly tight spaces,” Coen continued. “It can even grow back limbs. The octopus is resilient, and that’s why Gina wanted it. This tattoo was supposed to be hers, but by the time she was diagnosed, she was too weak to get the art. The doctor said any exposure to a possible infection was an unnecessary risk. One that could prove deadly. After my parents heard that, they forbade a trip to the tattoo shop. So I got it for her.”
“Like a proxy,” Thea said.
“Yeah, something like that.” Coen slipped the clean T-shirt over his head.
Thea stared at the two tendrils on his neck, the only portion of the tattoo still visible. The only portion she’d known until this moment. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of it all—the secrets a person could hide in full sight. This research facility and how far she was from home. The very real possibility that Coen might never see his family again—that she would likely never find hers.
“Hey,” Coen said.
She glanced up, startled to find an expression on his face that she hadn’t seen before. Concern, on every inch of his features, but paired with something else she couldn’t place. His brow was wrinkled, but his eyes were soft.
“We’ll get out of this.” He pressed his palm to the glass, spreading out his fingers.
She didn’t know if that was true anymore, but she wasn’t brave enough to contradict him.
“Thea?”
She reached out, pressing her hand to his. Though several centimeters of glass divided them, Coen’s pulse beat strongly in her ears. She let hers match it, their hearts beating in perfect unison. She imagined, briefly, what his bare hand might feel like against hers. The thought sent a wave of heat through her and she pulled back as her pulse kicked faster, breaki
ng rhythm with his.
Come evening, Nova couldn’t sleep. She was on the IV again, a precaution Amber had insisted on to avoid dehydration. There were sensors on Nova’s chest, a clip on her finger. Her vitals ticked on a machine.
She rolled onto her side, muscles protesting, but sore was good. It meant progress. It meant healing. Between the physical therapy and a session in the regen bed every morning, Nova could be back on her feet within a week. Still weaker than she was used to, Amber had warned, but capable of supporting her own weight and using the bathroom alone. Capable of independence.
It sounded glorious. And still it did little to lift her mood.
Too much was wrong. The IV and sensors keeping her chained to the bed. The strange research facility run by Radicals in cooperation with Hevetz Industries. How her cryo pod had somehow plunged her into a coma—a malfunction that happened so rarely Nova couldn’t place the last time she’d read about it in the news.
Someone had tampered with her pod while in stasis. It was the only explanation. Likely the same someone who now held her friends against their will. Burke.
Her thoughts drifted to Toby and his conspiracy theories about the Radicals staging a coup soon, taking over the government and seizing Trios independence by force with the help of Hevetz Industries. And now she was stuck at this facility, manned by Radicals, all the details lining up with Toby’s predictions.
Nova closed her eyes only to see Achlys in the darkness. Black Quarry members slithered into view, crawling from crevices and fissures in the ragged land. Snapping and growling, they chased her into Celestial Envoy, pushing her deeper into the ship, trapping her. Toby was there, too, eyes dark with blood. She’d hated him, and yet he didn’t deserve what he’d become. No one deserved that.
She blinked and found herself strapped to an operating table aboard Celestial Envoy. Toby was upon her, clawing at her face and limbs. Tearing flesh. Driving the infected blood beneath his fingernails into her skin. She could feel the bacteria in her veins—hot, ugly.
Nova screamed, thrashing. She shoved at Toby and pawed at her own limbs, trying to dig the disease out.
“Nova, stop!”
Hands pressed against her shoulder—Toby, shoving her into the bed.
“NOVA!”
She tried to turn away. Toby was stronger.
“Nova, it’s me. You’re in your room.”
She felt a pillow beneath her back. Medbay operating tables didn’t have pillows. There was a blanket over her feet. A window that wasn’t a window. A digital night sky.
“You’re fine. Come back to me. Come back.”
Amber’s face appeared where Toby’s had been. Nova blinked, confused. Stopped struggling. Her sheets were a mess. She’d pulled the IV from her arm, torn the sensors from her chest and finger.
“Nova,” Amber said again.
Nova found the medic’s eyes. “I was back there,” she gasped out. “They were everywhere. They were attacking me.” A sob escaped her, and she buried her face in her hands, crying. Once the tears started, she couldn’t slow them. The dam was broken. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“This,” Amber said, squeezing her hand. “Me. This room. There’s no one here but us.”
“I can’t slow my heart down. I feel like it’s going to explode from my chest.”
“It could be PTSD. You’ve been through a lot and— Here. Try to breathe with me.”
Nova forced herself to match Amber’s inhales and exhales as the medic got her back on the IV and reattached sensors. Nova’s heartbeat soon beeped through the room, fast and urgent.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. She could handle this. They were just memories—nightmarish memories—but she’d lived through them. She already needed help walking. She couldn’t bear the thought of needing even more support.
“In that case . . .” Amber pulled an animation up on her Tab—a flat line that morphed into a triangle, then a square, a pentagon, all the way up to an octagon. “Imagine this is your lungs filling as you breathe in,” she instructed. “Exhale as it collapses.” The octagon folded in on itself, collapsing flat before morphing into a triangle again, the animation looping.
Nova breathed with it for several minutes, her pulse steadying. Her vitals stabilized, the monitor’s beeping leveling out.
“Good,” Amber said, though Nova could detect some uncertainty in her voice. She was just a medical intern. She was winging this. “Keep doing that.”
Nova focused on the animation, barely noticing as Amber smoothed out the blanket and righted the nightstand that Nova had somehow toppled. Finally, Nova felt as though a weight had lifted from her chest, as if the room was bigger. A steady heart rate blipped on the monitor.
The mattress shifted as Amber sat beside Nova. “Better?”
Nova nodded, noticing that Amber wasn’t wearing her haz suit anymore, but jeans and a low-cut tee. Her medical jacket hung askew from her shoulders. One sleeve was rolled to the elbow, the other wrinkled but loose. Probably Nova’s doing as she’d thrashed.
“Do you want me to stay?” Amber asked.
Without the hazmat suit’s visor, Nova could see that the medic’s hair fell to her collarbone, a lob reminiscent of someone else Nova had known. She blinked, and Dylan sat in Amber’s place. Another blink, and the medic was back.
The pressure closed in on Nova’s chest, threatening to overtake her.
“No,” she said. “I need you to leave. Right now.”
Amber frowned, standing. “All right. Call if you need anything.”
Nova heard her leave, and it was only then that she risked a glance toward the door. The medic was gone. Nova was alone. Safe. She could get through this without anyone. She was enough.
She continued the breathing animation, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the silver bracelet on her other wrist as she inhaled, and exhaled, and inhaled again.
Thea was awoken by the guards the following morning and again brought to the locker rooms. She whispered the route into Coen’s mind, reciting turns and noting levels. His pessimistic thoughts riled her.
What good is knowing the way to the elevator if we’re always collared and capped? We’ll never get anywhere.
That’s not helpful, she snapped, and returned to her work. She didn’t care if he thought it useless. The information was important. She ran through it mentally while showering. The mirror was again fogged when she was finished.
“One minute!” the guard shouted from the hall.
Thea scanned the locker room again, searching the corners and ceiling. There were no surveillance cameras to be seen—likely in ordinance with a privacy policy. The locker room was off grid.
She brought a finger to the mirror, tracing a message into the fogged surface.
Is Nova alive?
When she left the room, a quick shock bringing her to her knees, Amber Burke was again arriving. Methodical. Right on time.
It was a bold question, what Thea had left on that mirror. There was no way of knowing if Amber even knew who Nova was. But the girl was a med intern and at the very least, she’d have access to medical records, so Thea made sure to hold her gaze, thinking, Help me, help me, please. She didn’t care if it was pitiful or desperate or weak. She wanted an ally outside her cell, and something told her Amber might be it.
Amber was waiting for the water to warm when she spotted the message.
She stared at it, additional steam clouding the mirror, erasing the letters. Within a minute, it was as though the message was never there. Part of her wished this was true. It would be easier to not help the host—Thea, Nova had called her—if the girl hadn’t made contact.
But now . . .
Amber considered her options while washing. When she was through—dried and dressed—the locker room was still empty. It was early, but Amber had always been a morning person, up before the sun. Not that there was a sun at this level.
She cleared a secti
on of the mirror with her towel. Her reflection stared back.
What would it be like to be held here against her will, unaware of her location, her purpose, if she’d ever be set free? Amber didn’t know what business her father or Burke had with Thea and her friend, but it couldn’t be good.
There was no harm in answering the question, she decided. She fished around in her bag until she found a small printout showing Nova’s vitals. Amber had requested it back on Paramount when the on-site network had malfunctioned one day, failing to back up vitals automatically. She’d entered the data by hand a few hours later when things were back online. The opposite side of the printout was blank.
Amber dug her brow pencil from her makeup bag and wrote: Nova is fine. Out of coma. Weak but healing.
She crouched down and tucked the note beneath the sink, cramming it between the vanity and the wall. Lingering there, she wondered if she was making a mistake. She couldn’t help Thea, not truly, and just speaking to the host could get her in trouble. It was clear the Radicals were on one side of this and Thea and Coen were on the other.
“Hey, Amber,” Cyra said, striding into the locker room. The Hevetz geneticist had a bag in hand and a towel slung over her shoulder. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Just dropped my brow pencil.” Amber held it up and stood. No time to change her mind now. “I’ve got a PT session to run. See you later.”
Cyra nodded in farewell, and Amber slipped into the hall.
When Coen was shoved into the research facility, Dr. Farraday and the usual medics were waiting. Today, two desks had been set at opposite ends of the wide room, one right before the mirrored wall, the other on the far side, the chairs positioned to face each other.
Coen was forced into the seat by the mirror. Thea, the other.
