by Amie Kaufman
In the action vids I’d seen—my parents didn’t condone them, but Miriam let me watch when they weren’t paying attention—people who got shot always flew backward. Newton’s third law of motion prohibits this, of course—a bullet lacks the force to reverse a body’s momentum. But I still remember feeling surprised as Max stumbled forward after the shots hit him, before he crumpled to the deck.
The remaining three adults, including my father, raised their hands in surrender. I watched over the crates, holding my scream inside. I remember my heart rate was elevated, my respiration bordering on distressed, my mouth dry.
I remember I did not like feeling that way.
“Where’s the child?” the lead raider snapped. It was a man’s voice, accented, perhaps from Tempera.
“What child?” my father asked before either Hòa or Miriam could reply.
“Your child,” the man said, his voice dropping in register. There was a shake to it, and he paused to brace his hand against the edge of the hole they’d blasted in our ship. I concluded he was drug affected.
He had been inhaling an illegal substance when I’d met him a week before. Marney Station was not reputable, but it was possible to access many black-market goods there, and my father was a practical man. After we had filed our latest samples, we’d taken the grav-lift down to the lower levels so he could purchase ingredients for a special meal to celebrate Hòa’s birthday.
“Don’t move out of my sight,” he told me.
I followed his directive, but was drawn to a group of gamblers participating in a game of tintera. I loved games, and I stood on my toes to watch the cards dealt—each round the players would decide whether to accept a new card from the dealer. The goal was to hold cards that, added together, totaled twenty-four.
It was simple to note which cards had already been dealt, calculate the probability of a favorable deal from the remaining cards, and decide accordingly.
The first time I advised the man on his choice, he laughed.
The second time, he listened.
The third time, he gave me fifty credits and invited me to play.
“Come be my lucky charm,” he said.
Everyone laughed, and I grinned. It was exciting to have new playmates. Life on the Janeway was so predictable.
When my father retrieved me fifteen minutes later, I was up one thousand nine hundred and fifty credits. He made me leave them at the table and escorted me away with a haste I did not understand.
Now the man stood here on our ship, asking to see me.
“There’s no child here,” my father said.
And so the man shot Hòa. He didn’t make a sound as he died.
Miriam was the one who broke. “Don’t shoot—she’s here! I’ll help you find her.” She turned to look for me, her voice trembling. “Zila? Zila, come out!”
I did not like the feelings I felt then, either. Anger, that my friend who watched vids with me would betray me. Contempt, that she thought I was stupid enough to obey. Fear, that now they knew I was here.
“She’s not here,” my father said, quiet and calm. “We sent her to school.”
They were going to search soon, I realized. And they would find my things. My father’s voice faded to a soft, familiar hum as I clambered up into the air vents and crawled down the ship to our living quarters.
When I dropped into our room, I could smell my mother. The warm, spicy scent of her perfume, an outrageous luxury on a posting like ours.
I had only a few possessions. I stuffed my clothes into the laundry hamper, then stripped my bed and dumped the sheets on top to hide them. I crushed the model mining equipment I had been making with my father and fed it into the recyc.
Keeping to the vents, I dodged the men as they searched the ship for me. They had already shot three people. They wanted me. They would shoot my father and leave once they had me. So it was up to me to keep him safe.
Logic dictated that.
* * *
• • • • •
Logic dictates that it cannot be much longer, but still, I feel a sense of relief at the twelve-minute mark, when one of the Syldrathi smothers a yawn. I make a mental note to research what variables might have caused the gas to impact him before the others. Carbon monoxide is lighter than air. Perhaps he is taller?
I inspect the other four technicians from my vantage point. One is visibly flagging, but three still appear well. I hope the Syldrathi constitution is not, in their cases, hardier than I anticipated.
* * *
• • • • •
It was harder than I had anticipated to keep my father safe, but I succeeded for a while. It was a small ship, but I was small too, and I had a lot of experience playing hide-and-seek. This time, though, there were no muffled giggles as I slipped away from my hunters. No secret smiles as they walked right by me.
I shoved my feelings down very hard as I climbed from the vents and into my mother’s office. I imagined myself putting them in a box and closing the lid so they couldn’t distract me.
I crawled in under her desk to where her comms equipment was plugged in, and yanked the cables free. The rig was set to auto-transmit a status update every three hours. If it didn’t, someone would come looking for answers. They might wait until we missed two check-ins, but if a corp craft was in the area, we could get lucky.
Two hours later, the equipment failed to transmit. After four hours, the raiders started bickering. Their drugs were wearing off, and their raid had not concluded as easily as they had expected. One of the men argued they should cut their losses.
The leader pointed out that (a) my demonstrated ability to calculate odds would still be lucrative for their employers, and (b) I had seen their faces and could testify against them.
But after three more hours of searching, they lost patience. They shot Miriam, despite her begging and her tears. And then they held the gun to my father’s head.
“Come out, Zila,” called the man. “I don’t want to shoot your daddy too. Just come out and he’ll be safe, Lucky Charm.”
I considered my position. If I emerged, I was confident they would shoot him and take me immediately. If I did not, perhaps they might choose to search a little longer, prolonging his life for use against me later. Giving the corp more time to send a team to investigate our silence.
I held my position.
“She’s not here,” my father said doggedly. “But if she were, I would tell her that I love her.” He looked up into the vents. Perhaps hoping that I was watching. “And that this isn’t her fault.”
The man shot him.
Then they ransacked the Janeway and left.
When I emerged from my hiding place, the ship’s emergency ionization field was crackling over the jagged hole they’d left in its side, holding the vacuum back.
I remember thinking I had a field just like that keeping my feelings at bay. I didn’t know how long it would hold, either. But I poured all my strength into maintaining it. I thought I would be better off without them.
For twelve years, I was correct.
* * *
• • • • •
I was correct. By the sixteen-minute mark, all five Syldrathi are unconscious, collapsed over their glass countertop. I carefully remove the vent, keeping myself low as I climb up into the room. Though my heart insists on thumping, Aurora Legion training has assured me that if I stay close to the ground and work quickly, I will avoid a dangerous dose of the gas.
“HI THERE!”
I startle as Aurora’s uniglass speaks from its place on the counter, my heart now beating wildly against my ribs.
“YOU SURE TOOK YOUR TIME GETTING HERE!” it chirps, unaware of my distress. “I WAS AFRAID THEY WERE GOING TO DISSECT ME!”
“You are a machine,” I say. “You cannot be afraid.”
“SAY, THAT WAS A N
EAT TRICK WITH THE GAS! YOU’RE PRETTY SMART FOR A—”
“Be quiet,” I tell it.
“YOU KNOW, YOU’RE LUCKY I LIKE YOU PEOPLE SO MUCH,” it chirps. “CONSTANTLY BEING TOLD TO BE QUIET COULD LEAD A LESSER MACHINE TO MAYBE START PLOTTING YOUR GRISLY MURDERS AN—”
“Silent mode!” I hiss.
Magellan finally complies, falling mute. I quickly gather the passkeys and the other uniglasses, then avail myself of the weaponry on offer—Warbreed technicians are more heavily armed than United Terran Authority scientists would be. And wasting no more time, I pack my haul into one of their bags before crawling back down into the vents.
* * *
• • • • •
When I crawled down from the vents, I discovered I was too small to move the bodies, but I arranged them as best I could. Even Miriam. She had been scared, I knew that. That was why she had done it.
That was why it was so important not to feel.
Everyone here had acted on feelings, and they were dead because of it.
And because of me.
Someone would eventually be sent to investigate why the beacon had failed. Obviously my hope of a corp craft’s arrival after six hours and two missed transmissions had been optimistic—the Janeway was a minor asset. But in time, they would come. I just needed to support myself until then, and hope the force fields didn’t give out.
It was another seventy-six hours before I woke in my parents’ bed to voices above me.
“Great Maker, how is she still alive?”
I rolled onto my back to look up at them. Five adults in corp uniforms.
I wasn’t afraid.
I wasn’t relieved.
I was nothing.
* * *
• • • • •
I am not…feeling nothing as I proceed to the next stage of my mission. Putting serious thought into the matter for the first time, I realize the members of Squad 312 have compromised my emotional integrity. Slowly, some of what I was as a child is returning. I have not yet decided whether this is a welcome development.
Three levels down, I find the infirmary, where Kal lies restrained on a bio-cot, attended by two Unbroken medics. I raise my purloined disruptor to the shaft’s grille and take careful aim. Waiting. Patient. Finally, I hear what I am waiting for—a shipwide announcement spilling over the public address system, warning all hands to prepare for Fold entry. Loud enough to conceal a disruptor blast.
BAMF!
My shot strikes the first medic in the back of her head. The second draws his sidearm with astonishing speed, but my shot strikes him in his throat, laying him out on the deck beside his comrade.
That was too close.
I climb up from the vents as the announcement ends.
“Who is there?” Kal demands, trying to turn his head.
I do not waste words, setting to work on his restraints.
“Zila…,” he whispers.
“I understand you were shot. Are your injuries serious?”
“No,” he replies simply. “Where is Aurora?”
I decide that mentioning his sister’s use of the agonizer will not aid Kal in rational thinking. “She is in the holding cells with Finian and Scarlett.”
“We must go to her,” he insists, sitting up as soon as his arms are free.
“I concur. We can make our way via the ducts.”
“I will not fit in there,” Kal protests.
I am acutely aware that if Finian were here, he would make some off-color joke at this juncture. I clear my throat, frowning in concentration. “I…”
Kal simply stares at me, obviously impatient.
I am rapidly discovering the value of comedy relief.
“Never mind,” I finally say.
Kal is able to disable the guards stationed outside the infirmary by striking with the benefit of surprise. I form the view, but do not voice it, that he expends more effort than strictly necessary to subdue them. I suspect he, like me, is struggling for optimal levels of composure.
Another shipwide announcement rings over the PA as Kal strips off the first guard’s armor. Our Tank seems distinctly uncomfortable as he slips into the guise of an Unbroken warrior, but now is not the time to explore his feelings on the topic.
Kal removes the mag-restraints from his bio-cot, slips them around my wrists.
“Walk ahead of me,” he says. “Eyes down. Say nothing.”
I nod, and after a quick check outside to ensure it is clear, we march into the hallway. Kal seems to know his way around a Syldrathi warship, and he directs me quickly into a turbolift, leading to the detention block below.
“Thank you, Zila,” he murmurs beside me. “You did well.”
A slight warmth stirs in my chest at his praise.
I am not…feeling nothing.
“Are you all right?” I hear him ask.
My voice is steady. My expression blank. But…
“I am…glad.” I frown. “To be out of the dark.”
I meet his eyes, which is not something I can really recall having done before. I wonder if he can see her. That little girl. Crawling around in those vents on that silent station. The pieces of her she left in the darkness. The fear. The hurt. The anger.
Did she only leave them behind? Or did she leave herself behind with them?
Did she do it because it was easier?
Or because she had to?
And, after twelve years, what will she do now that she is finally, truly beginning to crawl out?
I am not…feeling nothing.
I am not feeling nothing.
SUBJECT: GALACTIC CONFLICTS
▶ SYLDRATHI CIVIL WAR
▼ THE UNBROKEN
LED BY A REBEL ARCHON NAMED CAERSAN, AKA THE STARSLAYER, THE UNBROKEN ARE A MILITANT FACTION OF SYLDRATHI, COMPRISING MOST OF THE WARBREED CABAL.
REJECTING THE PEACE TREATY BETWEEN EARTH AND SYLDRA, THE UNBROKEN SPLINTERED FROM THE RULING SYLDRATHI COUNCIL TEN YEARS AGO. THEY ATTACKED TERRAN SHIPYARDS DURING AN ARRANGED CEASE-FIRE AND, IN A DISPLAY OF SHOCKING BRUTALITY, EVENTUALLY LAUNCHED AN ASSAULT ON THEIR OWN HOMEWORLD.
USING AN UNKNOWN WEAPON, THE UNBROKEN CAUSED THE SYLDRATHI SUN, EVAA, TO COLLAPSE, FORMING A BLACK HOLE THAT DESTROYED THE ENTIRE SYSTEM.
TEN BILLION SYLDRATHI DIED.
JUST HOW THE UNBROKEN MANAGED TO PULL THIS OFF IS ANYONE’S GUESS.
Look after your sister.
They were the last words Dad said to me. After he kissed Scar on the forehead, told her he’d be back in time for our birthday. After he knelt down and wrapped me up in the last hug he’d ever give me. He stood, and he ruffled my hair in that way I hated, and he spoke to me that way I loved. Not like I was a kid. Like I was a man. Like he was saying something Important and I was worthy of it.
Look after your sister, he told me.
I did. Always.
And she looked after me too.
Scar and I were inseparable as kids. Dad said we invented our own language before we could talk. And even though I wasn’t sold on my twin joining Aurora Legion—tried to talk her out of it, in fact—I was secretly glad Scar was standing beside me when I signed on the line at New Gettysburg Station. I’d have felt like a piece of me had been torn out if I’d left her behind. And I’d be able to look after her better if she was close. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe.
Like jumping into a pit with a full-grown drakkan?
Part of me can’t believe I pulled that one off, to be honest. The Tyler Jones who graduated top of Aurora Academy wouldn’t have even considered it. He was a guy who played by the book. Regulation. Caution. Careful consideration before every move. But the longer I’m out here, on the edge, the more at home I feel. And with the enemies we’re playing against?
Sometimes the
only way to win is to break the game.
I’m staring at a set of checkered hexagonal tiles, stacked six high, scattered with white and black stones. It’s a dóa board from Chelleria—a tactical game, considered to be one of the most difficult to master in the galaxy. I’m a third-tier player at best. The board is sitting atop an ornately graven desk of dark metal in Saedii’s outer quarters, vibrating softly to the hum of the Andarael’s engines.
Looking around the room in the dim illumination, monochrome from the Fold, I can see other games. A samett set from Trask. Three beautiful tae-sai boards from Syldra, all carved of lias wood. Even a half-finished game of chess. Waiting for my hostess, sitting in a comfortable chair in front of her desk, I can tell she’s a tactician. Everything about the room—the games, the books, even the simple geometric art—tells me Kal’s sister is fascinated by strategy.
I pick up one of the dóa pieces, my ribs and muscles still groaning after my run-in with the drakkan. The piece is a flat white disk marked with a triangular black symbol. They play the role of pawns in the game—kinda, anyway. Sacrificial lambs used to gain an edge elsewhere in the battle.
I’m starting to appreciate how they feel.
“Do you play?” comes a low, sweet voice from behind me.
I turn and see Saedii stalking through a double set of auto-doors, a silver tray poised on one hand. Her pet drakkan rides on her shoulder, watching me with glittering golden eyes. Before the doors whisper shut behind them, I see her inner quarters: simple artwork, a large bed, a computer terminal. I briefly wonder where she hangs the skins of her victims.
She’s changed out of her armor into Syldrathi dress uniform—formfitting black, elegant lines, glittering with silver embellishments and battle trophies. Her black hair rolls down over her shoulders in seven thick braids, just like Kal’s. She’s taken the time to refresh the black paint that coats her lips, the strip that frames her eyes. I can see her brother in the shape of them, the line of her cheeks and brow. She radiates an aura of command: cold, cruel, calculating.
