by Amie Kaufman
I jerk my eyes away. I should be trying to find a weapon. The madman McBride was sporting a military-issue Gleidel, no doubt looted from a fallen soldier; if my hands had been free, maybe I could’ve gotten it from him. With one shot, I could’ve gotten justice for the murders he’s committed over the years since the last open rebellion. But since they haven’t fed me yet, I don’t have so much as a spoon to work with. I ease down onto the mattress, too exhausted to think. It’s only then that it occurs to me: mattresses have metal springs.
I let myself have a minute to sit there, unmoving, gathering my strength. Then, muffling the sound of tearing fabric with my body, I rip open the corner of the mattress farthest from the door. Before long my hands are aching, cramping, but the sharp spring I’m trying to work loose is moving more freely. If I bend it back and forth enough, the metal will fatigue to the point where it snaps.
I’m stretching my fingers when I hear footsteps. I slide onto the mattress and put my back to the wall, facing the door. I interlace my fingers behind my head, making my ribs burn in protest.
Nothing to see here, assholes.
“You’re not going to try and kill me through the grate, are you?” Romeo. How familiar that voice is becoming. I wonder if it’ll ever not make me long to punch him—though I have to admit it’s better than isolation.
“Can’t make any promises,” I call back. A lantern abruptly casts light into my cell from the grate, and then his face is there. His eyes look so familiar—even more so with the bottom half of his face concealed by the steel of the door. I’ve seen those eyes somewhere before.
“Still alive?”
“For the most part.” I lower my arms carefully. Hurts too much to keep them up. But I don’t really want to give away how badly I’m aching from McBride’s attack. “You can come in, you know.”
“Trying to lure me in so you can hit me over the head and steal the keys?”
I wonder if I’m as irritating to him as he is to me. Maybe it’s easier to feel charitable toward a dead girl walking. Abruptly I’m too tired to make another joke. “Maybe I don’t want my last words with another human being to be spoken through a prison grate.”
The amusement in his eyes dims. His humor is just like mine. A defense. I let mine down, he responds in kind. If only I’d learned it sooner, maybe I could’ve gotten more out of him, information I could use in the future back on base.
What future?
He continues to hesitate, though I hear him take a step closer to the door. “Fine. I brought you some soup anyway, hard to feed you through the grate. Stay back there, will you?”
Part of me finds it funny that he thinks I’m in any shape to do anything to him at all. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The lock slams back and the door screeches outward, awkwardly set on its hinges. Romeo hovers in the doorway, carrying a bowl in one hand and a lantern in the other.
Even knowing his name, I can’t think of him as Flynn. His first name feels too strange, too intimate. I’m not going to be one of those prisoners who starts thinking of her captors as anything other than enemies. This is the guy who’s killed me. Whether he delivers the final blow or not, he’s the one who dragged me here, made it impossible for there to be any other outcome. I have to keep telling myself that.
“So, Romeo.” I lean my head back, waiting for him to make some move farther into the cell. “Why do you keep coming back here to see me? Can’t get enough, huh?”
“Never,” he replies easily enough, stooping to set the bowl down on the floor inside the door. My heart sinks a little, ready to watch him retreat now that he’s delivered the soup. Instead, to my relief, he straightens and leans back against the wall. “I suppose I keep coming back because you’re my responsibility.”
“Your responsibility as in, you’re gonna be the one to bash my head in when the time comes?”
His face shuts down, muscles tensing. He really doesn’t like it when I mention violence—an odd trait for a rebel. “You really are screwed up,” he mutters.
“You’re the one who knocked me out and carried me off into the swamp. If that’s not screwed up, don’t know what is.”
“I don’t know why I’m bothering.” He pushes away from the door, pacing the few steps from one side of the cell to the other.
I look past him at the hallway. It’d only take a few seconds to rush him. A few seconds of agony, with my ribs, with my gash, with my spinning head and rebelling stomach. But then I’d be free. And alive. Just rush him. Just do it.
But one body can only handle so much abuse, and I can only ask so much of it. Maybe I could have done it when my anger was fresh. But I’m tired. I’m so tired, and there’s no one here to know it if, for one moment, I rest.
“Listen,” he says, coming to a halt between me and the door. “I’m talking to them. I’m trying to convince them it’s not worth military retaliation if they kill you. Some of them are listening to me, at least hesitating.”
“Sure.” I snort. “You’re going to single-handedly convince the whole rebel base not to kill such a high-profile prisoner?”
“Yes.” He speaks simply, his eyes on me.
That brings me up short. The smug assurance is gone, the mocking half smile, the arrogant set to his jaw. Instead he looks determined. Resigned. Oddly strong, for someone so goddamn pretty.
Then it hits me.
“Flynn,” I echo. “Flynn—Cormac? Orla Cormac’s brother?”
Orla Cormac, leader of the Fianna during the last uprising on Avon, long before my time. Orla Cormac, the woman responsible for organizing and establishing the base, the one who gave the townie criminals a place to hide. Orla Cormac, executed ten years ago by military personnel acting on behalf of the Galactic Council.
Survived by her only remaining family member, a little brother ten years younger. A boy named Flynn, who fled to the swamps to avoid being shipped off to an orphanage off-world.
And I’d recognize Orla’s face anywhere—we all learned about her in basic training. How to stop someone like her from ever happening again. No wonder I thought Romeo looked so familiar.
He’s quiet, watching me put it all together. “A pleasure to meet you, Jubilee Chase,” he murmurs.
I haven’t just been captured by an idiot with a charming grin. I’ve been taken by the only surviving family of Avon’s most infamous martyr. My hand itches, my hip aching with the absence of my gun against it. If I could have one shot, just one shot, I could put an end to this revenge cycle right here, right now.
Except if what he’s saying is true, and he’s the only thing stopping McBride from whipping the rebels into all-out war, then killing him would solve nothing.
“I’m talking to them,” Cormac continues when I say nothing. “But you need to give me some time.”
“I’m supposed to believe that you, the brother of the woman we executed, actually want to get me out alive?”
“You didn’t kill her,” Cormac replies quietly. “I’m not saying you and I are ever going to be friends, but even if you had signed her death warrant, this isn’t the way toward justice. It didn’t work ten years ago, and it’s not going to work now. I know we need a different way.”
I swallow, the muscles in my jaw tightening. Somewhere inside me, the pain stirs, straining against the bonds of control that lock it away. If I came face-to-face with a member of the group responsible for my parents, I’m not sure I’d hesitate before I blew them off the face of whatever sorry planet they ended up on. In fact, I know I wouldn’t.
“So what now?” I ask finally, my voice sounding papery and thin.
“We wait. And you stop trying to figure out a way out of this cell, because I definitely can’t convince them to let you go if we have to shoot you while you’re fighting your way out of this base.”
“What? How could I—”
“Please.” Cormac lifts his jaw, pointing with it toward the torn corner of the mattress. “The last thing I need added to my list of cred
entials is ‘stabbed by a mattress,’ in addition to a cocktail skewer.”
Shit.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
He eyes me for a long moment. “Fine.”
I give him a few minutes to get clear, listening to his footsteps retreating down the corridor. Once all traces of lantern light and footsteps are gone, I slide off the mattress again and get back to work on the spring.
The door bangs open and I jerk awake in confusion. The movement jars my ribs and I gasp aloud, too befuddled to hide it. When did I fall asleep? Shit—what do I—
“Get up, we don’t have a lot of time. Can you walk?”
“Romeo, what’s—”
“Now.” Cormac’s voice is urgent, utterly lacking in its usual lazy insolence. “Take my hand, come on.”
I let him help me to my feet, choking back the groan that tries to escape. It’s only after he starts pulling me toward the door that it hits me.
He’s taking me to be killed.
My muscles tense. It’d be smarter to wait, let him think I’m going willingly, use the element of surprise. But I’m still half asleep, and my body’s acting on instinct. I wrench my arm back with a twist, ready to pin his against his back.
“Will you stop doing that?” He escapes me, barely, jumping backward. He’s got a lantern with him, but it’s mostly shielded. Only slivers of light escape to break up the blue-green illumination of the wispfire. “I’m getting you out of here, you stupid trodaire.”
My brain feels like it’s running on a treadmill in a pool of tar. “Out of here,” I echo stupidly. “Your people changed their minds?”
“Not exactly.” To his credit, he doesn’t try to manhandle me again, keeping a cautious distance.
I stare at him, confused. I’ve seen his hideout—granted, not much of it from the inside of my cell, but I’ll see a whole lot more of it while he’s leading me to safety.
My mouth opens, and I find myself asking, “What’re the other rebels going to do to you when they find out you helped me?”
“I’m hoping it’ll look like you escaped on your own. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Now, are you coming?”
A flicker of admiration courses through me. Going against his own people takes guts. Of course, if he were on our base, he’d get handed a court martial for insubordination. “You’re insane,” I point out, trying not to shiver in the clammy chill.
“Then I’m in good company.” He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out. “Coming?”
This time I don’t hesitate. I turn and let him put the jacket over my shoulders, and together we slip from the cell and out into the corridor.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Oh, I thought maybe dinner and a nice boat ride to see the wisps. Somewhere quiet and romantic, then maybe drinks afterward before I drop you home.”
This is costing him, going against his people in order to get me out. He’s covering, and not doing a very good job of it. A thousand cutting retorts flicker through my thoughts, but the words don’t come. We lapse into silence as he leads me through the corridors.
After a time he slows, lifting a hand to warn me to do the same. Then he strides around the corner like he owns the place. We must be into more heavily trafficked areas now, where people would notice if he was skulking around secretively. After a second he gestures for me to follow. All clear. It’s only a few seconds later that footsteps echo back toward us, and Cormac’s hand reaches out to jerk me into an alcove.
This nook is barely more than a crack in the rock, with only enough room for us to squeeze in out of sight in the shadows. Our bodies press together, my ribs aching in protest, the gash in my side burning. His head turns a little, the light sandpapery stubble along his jaw brushing my cheek. I try to concentrate on something I know, training that comes easily to me. This close, I could so easily overpower him. I could use him as a hostage. They wouldn’t fire on one of their own. I’ve got no weapon, but I could probably break his neck if I had to, if I got the right leverage. His hand tightens around my wrist. I could—
The footsteps grow louder and louder. I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone heads past our hiding spot—doesn’t pause. The footsteps continue, growing fainter this time.
He eases out of the alcove first, then tugs on my wrist to get me to follow. “There are families here,” he murmurs. “That was someone’s mother who just walked by. Think about that before you lead any of your people back here, okay?”
I pull my hand away, making him grit his teeth. In another lifetime, I think I could learn to enjoy pissing this guy off. In this lifetime, though, I don’t have the luxury. Instead, I gesture for him to lead the way—I’m not about to walk in front of him. If he were smart, he wouldn’t let me walk behind him. But either he trusts me, or he’s just that foolish. Probably both. He’d certainly have to be foolish to trust me.
I try to make a mental map as we go, but with the flickering, deceptive shards of light and the twists and turns, it’s impossible to keep track. No time to think about what it’ll mean for Romeo if I hand over whatever I can remember to my people.
If? If I hand it over? I need to get out of here. Now.
An endless series of corridors and crude staircases later, there’s a shift in the air—the slightly stale dampness turns fresher. We’re near the exit. This place is huge, far bigger than we’d guessed. I don’t understand how we could’ve missed it on our sweeps. Sure, their being underground would mean infrared wouldn’t pick them up, but surely a landmass this big would’ve been searched right away. They must have it camouflaged somehow.
Cormac peers down another corridor, then leads me into a vast underground harbor. A T-intersection of docks houses a small fleet of the little two-man boats the locals favor, and the sound of water lapping up against the sheet metal reminds me sharply of how dehydrated I am. At the far end of the cavern is the inky darkness of Avon’s overcast night sky.
After checking again that no one’s on our heels, Cormac heads for the boats. Each one is numbered, corresponding to a matching number along the dock. Easy to tell when one’s missing. I never would’ve found this place on my own—even assuming I could’ve somehow gotten out of my cell. If he hadn’t come for me…
Who cares? It’s his fault you’re here in the first place. Go. Just GO.
I find myself staring at him. “You’re really letting me go? This isn’t some kind of trick?”
“No tricks,” he replies, voice darkening a little as he drops his gaze to look over the boats. His shoulders drop, as though the weight of this choice is a tangible force threatening to crush him. “I’ll take you back to the base.”
“And what will you do when your people find us gone? They’ll know you helped me.”
“I’ll handle it.” He crouches down by the mooring lines before tilting his head back to look at me, his gaze thoughtful, almost troubled. “What do you care?”
He’s going to get himself killed by his own people, and though he’s the reason I’m in this mess, I can’t discount his risking everything to get me out of it. I won’t let him do something this stupid. I find my smile, realizing at the back of my mind that it’s not hard to locate, looking at his face. “Good luck, Cormac.”
I see the recognition dawning in his eyes, but he doesn’t have my instincts. I bring my knee up into his chin—not hard, but enough to knock him off balance. Enough for me to take my time, give him a more measured blow with the heel of my hand that sends him down onto the dock, motionless.
It’s a moment before I register the pain in my side from my ribs and my gash, the price paid for such quick movement. With a grimace, I stoop and feel for Cormac’s pulse. Strong, steady. I stifle my relief and straighten. I could so easily roll him off into one of the waiting boats, bring him back to base, and force him to answer for the crimes of the Fianna. Orla Cormac’s brother would be a powerful bargaining chip. Maybe powerful enough to stop this war with
out having to rely on Romeo to stand between his people and McBride.
I swear under my breath, hating myself for my hesitation. I drag him a few feet back away from the edge of the dock so he doesn’t roll off and drown. I scan the three boats tied to the post he was kneeling by and choose the one whose gas gauge is highest. I don’t know where I am, but I’ll pick a direction and get as far from here as I can, and pray I hit a patrol from the base.
Unable to resist, I sneak one last glance at Cormac, sprawled on the dock. I peel off the jacket he gave me and drop it beside him—I’ll miss its warmth out in the swamps, but if I do get recaptured, the jacket will be a dead giveaway he helped me. Cormac’s arm is outflung, like he’s reaching for something, and the genetag tattoo there is unmistakable now with his sleeves rolled up. The coded spiral of data would match his sister’s in the database if I scanned it. And yet, it’s clear they’re not the same person. Orla would have killed me in the alley behind Molly’s.
Voices down the corridor interrupt me, and I grab for the boats on either side to start pulling myself toward the exit.
Sorry, Romeo. You’ll be glad when you wake up and you’re still a part of your gang.
Revving the motor, I turn the boat and speed out toward the channel.
He helped me—it’s the honorable thing to do, not turning on him and bringing him in. Honor, payback. He saved my life and I’m doing the same for him, just this once. And if anyone’s voice should be heard among this rabble, it should be the voice of someone whose first instinct isn’t blood and violence. His place is here, and he shouldn’t be cast out for helping me. I keep trying to tell myself it was the logical move.
But I’m struggling to convince myself that logic had anything to do with it.
“Don’t watch that show.” The girl’s father jabs the power button on the holovid, his dark eyes stormy and his jaw tense. “I never want to see you watching that again, you hear me?”
