Marked

by Jenny Martin

  Finally, another officer hands Hank an oversized flex screen, and after looking at Bear’s latest sim score, he enters an exit code. I hear the pressured pod door hiss as it opens. Hank and the other officer stand up to leave.

  And then I’m alone with my former best friend. Bear unbuckles and pulls off his helmet, and I catch the rarest glimpse of joy as he sits in the pod’s left command seat. He doesn’t spy me yet. His face is flushed and his ice-blue eyes are all lit up. It’s the happiest I’ve seen him in ages.

  He looks up as he rises from the com, but the sight of me presses him back into his seat.

  “Hi.” I swallow. “I figured you’d be here.”

  He nods, and I watch the joy slide away. A shadow passes over him, his jaw sets once more. This is the Bear I’ve come to know best in the last three months. He says nothing, and suddenly, I’m not ready to have this conversation.

  “Perfect score today?” I ask.

  “Almost. I missed one target. Or technically, my artificially intelligent copilot missed one. It’s a lot harder to run this kind of sim alone.”

  “But you’ll have a partner soon?”

  “A copilot? Yes.”

  Too many seconds of silence hang between us. My eyes sweep the pod; I look at everything but him. “Tell me what you love about this.”

  “The fighter vacs, you mean?”

  “Flight school. The simulator. All of it. Tell me.”

  “You really want to know?” he asks. He’s surprised. Lately, we’ve only seen each other in the clinic and in the mess hall. I’ve never sought him out here before.

  “I really want to know.”

  “Then,” he says, beckoning me into the pod, “instead of telling you, how about I show you?”

  I climb in and sit beside him. Bear hands me a helmet, and I buckle into the second command seat. When the pod door closes, we’re pinned down in darkness, the slow sigh of his breathing the only sound. A moment later, the sim comes to life, and I’m dazzled by false sunlight through pretend windows, and the sharp glow of a dozen holographic com screens. Bear swivels toward one and enters a code to launch the sim.

  “I’ll pick an easy one. We’ll have to handle evasive maneuvers over the mountains, but we won’t have to land under pressure. I’ll fly. You can be my gunner.” He gestures at the weapons console, with its lone mechanical control, a throttle-like trigger stick. “I’m betting it won’t be that hard for you.”

  He smiles. Already he’s relaxing again, falling into the rhythm of his work. “Flight ops, this is Talon One, reporting for Mission: Karkoun.”

  “Copy that, Talon One.” Flight ops is a silky-voiced, female AI. “Initiating simulation six-six-three.”

  “Interesting choice for a call sign,” I tease Bear, ignoring the pang in my chest. Our first rig, the one I sunk at the docks.

  “I’ve got a better one for you,” he answers mischievously. “Flight ops, I have new data.”

  “Standing by, Talon One,” she says. “Go ahead.”

  “Call sign for number two seat is Short Stuff,” he replies, a grin plastered over his screen-lit face.

  I scowl at Bear. I should’ve known. It’s his favorite nickname for me.

  “Copy that,” the computer says. “Welcome aboard, Shorts Tuff.” Bear cackles over the wire.

  “Seriously?” I kick, but his steel-toed boot’s just out of range. I swivel hard in my chair. Bear reaches out to stop me.

  “Easy there,” he mocks. “Or we’ll have to lock your com seat. And I might need you to swing around once the sim gets up in the air.”

  Which is exactly what’s going to happen in about ten seconds.

  “All systems are go, Talon One,” flight ops warns. “Prepare for takeoff.”

  I clench up at the sound of a hydraulic gasp as the com seat platform locks into place. Screens count down the last few seconds before liftoff. The platform jerks, and suddenly every surface vibrates with movement. The launch cycle presses me into my seat, and the way g-forces seem to ripple through me, I’d swear we were blasting into the sky.

  The most primitive patch of my brain takes over, delivering familiar orders. Release adrenaline. Endorphins. The bliss-terror cocktail that floods my system every time I buckle into the driver’s seat. Worse than a junkie, I’ve been chasing moments like this for half my life. In a rig, you get an eye-blink, a half-second jolt after you pull a speed trigger. Your heart bursts as you rocket forward. But the bullet-arc of the launch seems to stretch out so much farther. Just when I’m sure I can’t get any higher, I am. And then the teeth-rattling lift is gone, and we’re stabilized, racing smoothly. We’re . . . flying. I glance at my copilot and think to myself, I get it, Bear. I really do.

  His hands are on the controls. His eyes sweep the false horizon, then focus on the screens. “You make it look so easy,” I say.

  “It’s easy when you’re flying with flight ops. The system can do a lot on its own, given the right parameters. But you can’t always rely on auto-pilot. If there’s any kind of systems failure, or signal disruption . . . airspeed, energy-to-weight ratio . . . it’s all on us. You can’t ever count on coasting, Phee. You’ve always got to be ready.”

  Silent, I nod. In the past three months, Bear’s recovered from a bullet to the back and become a pilot. What have I done with the same number of hours? Marched the perimeter, laid some brick, and swept some floors. He has grown beyond me.

  “Flight ops,” he calls out. “Ready for briefing.”

  “Copy. Affirmative,” she answers. A floating grid map appears. “Your mission is to penetrate hostile airspace over the Karkoun mountains, drop supplies to target, and return to base. Pilot Talon One, you will manage fighter position and employ evasive maneuvers against enemy fire. Gunner Shorts Tuff, you will monitor airspace and dispatch enemy fighters at will. You have twenty-eight minutes to complete your mission. Over.”

  “Copy.”

  “Out,” flight ops signs off.

  And with that, we begin. I’m mystified as Bear effortlessly keeps an eye on airspeed and altitude. One touch to a screen or tilt of the center stick, and he easily manages the high-speed pitch and roll. A few prompts appear on my own screen (I think my com seat must be set for “novice”), but I catch on quickly enough. I’m to watch the defensive grid for approaching hostiles. If I see any, all I have to do is aim, and pull the trigger to blow them away. In the sim, Benroyal’s IP fighters shoot disruptive pulse fire, but they’re also equipped with tracking missiles and charged magma artillery. I’m not sure what kind of heat we’re packing.

  “What am I firing? Pulse fire or—”

  I’m cut off as Bear pulls us into a steep climb, then into a gut-churning spin. It takes me a second to figure out that I’m upside down, caught in a high-speed maneuver. A loud alarm pierces the fog.

  “Warning,” flight ops says. “IP signatures detected. Hostiles in pursuit.”

  Just as quickly as we flipped, we spiral again. I don’t know how Bear keeps his head in the game and his hands on the flight controls. I’ve raced my share of rigs at more than two hundred miles per hour and crashed half as much, but this flying thing? All the blood’s gone to my head, and it’s screaming Which way is up?

  “Three fighter vacs at seven o’clock. Get on it, Phee!”

  Bear says something else through the headset, but I’m too bugged out to catch it. Dig in, Van Zant. My eyes loll back, then I curse and force them to focus. Get a grip. I zero in on my targeting screen and reach out for the trigger stick. The feel of it in my hands anchors me. Bear engineers another plunging turn, but this time I’m ready for the swing. When the first hostile slips back on my screen, I’m on it. When I tilt to follow the target, it’s as if I’m riding the gun barrel, poised to rain down heavy fire.

  The alarm doesn’t let up, but I tune it out and pump the trigger once, twice,
three times. I miss by a mile. The careless pulse fire does nothing to stop the IP fighters. Relentless, they loop back around in hot pursuit.

  “Hold steady. You have to pull and hold it for a missile lock!” Bear shouts. “When your target blinks, let go!”

  We nearly take a direct hit, but Bear manages to keep us out of range. He dips, slowing down, until the fighters have eclipsed us. This time, when they appear on the targeting grid, I take Bear’s advice. A four-second squeeze, and we blow the first fighter to bits. It takes two other stomach-turning sprints to get into position again. I hammer the second fighter, ripping it out of the sky. Through my headset, the sim rewards me with a satisfying crack, and we weather the aftershocks of a fake explosion. It’s too easy to forget this isn’t real.

  The third fighter isn’t going down so easy. It rockets ahead, moving over the drop zone. “Target in range,” flight ops alerts us. In the midst of combat, the monotone calm of her voice is jarring. “Air drop must occur below one thousand feet.”

  “We won’t make it,” Bear says. “I’ve never made a successful drop without dispatching all hostiles first.”

  Sim or no sim, it pains me to let him down. “You’ve never had me on the trigger,” I say, forcing a confident edge I don’t really feel. “It’s not too late. Sweep down. Attempt the drop. I’ve got your back.”

  He takes me at my word and manages the descent. I swear, my stomach climbs into my throat as we fall. I’ve always known Bear as a brilliant navigator, but I’d never bargained he could play so fast and loose.

  I prepare for another evasive move, but the enemy fighter’s pulled ahead. It’s racing toward our drop zone. I strain to get a better glimpse of the ground. We are in the Karkouns now. The rebel camp’s below us. As we close the gap, the hostile vac slows down again. The enemy fighter’s playing a new game. We are no longer his target.

  And I have been here before.

  A rain of enemy pulse fire strikes the edge of the camp. The screens blink, illuminated by the hit.

  “Warning,” flight ops says. “Abort mission. Return to base.”

  My throat tightens and I’m paralyzed, my hands in a stranglehold around the targeting stick. When I don’t let go, missile after missile blazes forward, misfired into the air. I hardly notice. My eyes are fixed on the ground, and I watch as the enemy fighter obliterates the camp.

  Memories of the ambush rush in, and all the locked doors fly open at once. A dry heave twitch builds in my gut. I have to get out of this harness. Get out of this sim. I am here and not here. I can’t handle this.

  “Phee, are you okay?” Bear asks. He sounds so far away.

  An ear-splitting alarm sounds as I unbuckle and fumble with the com seat harness. My screen flashes with orders. Simulation Incomplete. Re-Engage Safety Restraint. I ignore the warning, but when I stand up, I can’t tell if the platform is still shifting or if I just can’t find my feet. One exhale gallops after another, and I sink to my knees, desperate to catch a deeper breath. A sob is crouched in my wind pipe, and I’m determined to hold it in.

  “Flight ops,” Bear barks, swiveling toward me. “Sim Over. Rapid Shut Down.”

  For a moment, I’m alone in the dark. No more sirens to cover my gasps. But then Bear’s hand falls on my shoulder. At his feet, I heave, shuddering like a helpless mess. My chest burning, my mind whirling, my whole body contracting, I’m pulled toward the black edge of tunnel vision. The white-knuckle fog seems to last forever, and when it finally lifts, I am past light-headed. I am empty.

  The emergency pod lights power up and I’m exposed. There will be no denying the panic attacks after this.

  Mercifully, Bear waits. He doesn’t try to pick me up or put me back together. And when our eyes meet, the quiet kindness sends a fresh stream of tears down my face.

  I shift, angling toward his seat. Bear leans until our foreheads touch. “You’ll get through this,” he says.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “You will.”

  “He’s gone, Bear.”

  In the space of a breath, he is on the floor, beside me. I reach for him like a child waking up after a nightmare, and without a word, he takes me in, scooping me into his arms and holding tight. In the crush, there’s relief. Between us, there’s no more anger. Only forgiveness. I’ve been so afraid and alone. I’d forgotten how much I’ve missed my best friend. How starving I’ve been for all that he is.

  For a long time, we are silent. Then Bear shifts. His lips find my forehead, my eyelids, my cheeks, my temples, and I am too relieved, too comforted to resist. Tenderly, he searches out every wound and heartbreak. When at last, his mouth seeks mine, I welcome the gentle press. His kiss is slow and lush, as weightless as compassion. I drink it in, the touch of his soft lips and sandpaper jaw.

  Once, I pushed Bear away for wanting this. But things are different now. We are different.

  “Stay,” he says, kissing me again. “Stay in the Strand.”

  I feel my resolve slipping away. But when we come up for air, I force the words out. “I can’t. At least, not yet. I have to figure things out and find out what James left for me.”

  “We’d be the best fighters the rebellion’s got,” he whispers against my cheek. “Fly with me. Be my partner.”

  It’d be easy to appease Bear. I could forget about Manjor and send Miyu back alone. I could throw my arms around this new life and never look back. It’s not hard to picture him and me, taking down IP vacs. Even more easily, I imagine us together. His body, warm and close. But then I think of Cash, and of other kisses; another embrace, not so long ago.

  Somehow, I know deep down inside that I’m not ready to forget him. And trying to ignore the pain by losing myself in Bear . . . that isn’t healing. It’s hiding.

  Maybe Bear is the one for me. Maybe we are meant to fly, side by side. But I won’t know for sure until I can stand on my own. Slowly, I pull back, staring into his eyes. “I think I want this,” I say. “But Benroyal murdered my father and my uncle, and he still has my mother. I can’t just turn my back on that and keep hiding out here.”

  “How can you say that, when we’re gearing up for war? There’s more than one way to fight him,” Bear protests.

  “I know. And I’ve got to find my own way to fight. I need this, Bear. I have to go to Manjor.”

  Bear doesn’t answer. Instead, he sighs, reaching for me. This time, he lingers, as though he’s memorizing the shape of us. Ours is the sweetest kiss, the bitterest kiss, the one that tastes most like good-bye.

  “I can’t follow you this time, Phee.”

  “I know.”

  I shatter as he pulls away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IN THREE DAYS, MIYU AND I LEAVE FOR MANJOR. IT’S DARK, and I lie on my bed. I close my eyes, but I can’t rest. I long to get lost in the white-noise gutter of the wee hours, but sleep won’t come. So I sit up, then head outside.

  I walk around the camp to outpace the thought loop in my head. Every half-lit, terrifying thing I’ve ever seen or imagined unspools in my brain. Sometimes, a flash of light—a good memory—claws its way through the cold sweat and I can stop to take a breath. But it takes so much energy to sustain that patch of warmth. Sometimes, it’s just easier to surrender and keep moving. One more lap around the armory, and I’ll be tired enough. I won’t imagine the rebel corpses. I won’t see Cash bleeding where we left him. My brain will shut off. I’ll collapse.

  I pass the infirmary. Soft light spills around the doorway. I hear the low buzz of a sterilizer panel, an air purifier’s churn and puff. If I close my eyes, I could be at home, in the Larssens’ clinic. In the night, the soft blue hum’s an invitation.

  I step inside.

  In the patient area, Hal sits in a high-backed chair with his head lolled to the side. I suspect he’s on call, uncomfortably catching a moment of shut-eye. Hal’s patient is eit
her asleep or unconscious on the cot beside him. One of the Biseran rebels. The young man’s face is beaded with sweat; a spiderweb of wired sensors are attached to his temples, arms, and chest. The flex monitor clipped to the cot supplies a steady beep . . . beep . . . beep. But there’s no sign of blood or bandages. I wonder what he’s doing here.

  Across the room, there’s an empty, white-sheeted gurney. Quietly, I climb onto it and lie down. Curled on my side, I watch Hal. Even now, asleep, his forehead’s pinched with worry. This is where Bear gets it. He is a guardian, through and through.

  “Phee?” a voice whispers.

  I look up. Mary is sleepy-eyed, dressed in her favorite raggedy scrubs. “Awake as ever,” I say.

  She sits on the edge of the gurney. Brushes a few flyaway strands from my face, then rests her scrubbed-rough hand on my arm. I let the warmth of it sink in. I memorize it and file it away, because neither of us are tender creatures. “Who’s the patient?” I ask her.

  “You know Zaide?” she answers. “The lieutenant in communications?”

  I nod again.

  “The boy’s her brother. We’re trying out stim therapy, to see if it helps him.”

  When I squint in confusion, she elaborates. “Aram’s a recovering sap addict. Stim’s a new approach, something we’ve learned from the Cyanese, but from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty effective.”

  “How’s it work?” I ask her, shifting to give her more room on the gurney.

  “We hook him up, and give him a programmable serum that zeroes in on certain areas of his brain while he’s unconscious.” She frowns, struggling to explain. “Stim therapy allows us to stimulate, or in this case, de-stimulate his nervous system. It’s like turning the volume down, or turning part of it off. Short intervals, so that the mind has a better chance to recover. Sometimes we can reverse the damage. And even when we can’t, patients have an easier time building new neural pathways. It’s a real second chance for addicts.”