This Shattered World

by Amie Kaufman

  She closes the door behind me, then turns to face me. Last time we spoke we were almost the same size, and she was trying to wrestle me to the ground in the muddy school yard. Now I’ve got a good three or four inches on her. I’m searching for words, some way to show her I’m sharing her pain, but she speaks first.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  To my surprise, I laugh. And though it’s a soft, sad sound, my chest loosens. I haven’t spoken to another human in three days. “The swamp happened to me,” I say, and her mouth quirks a little. “I’m so sorry, Sof. I wish there was something I could say that would make a difference. I know there’s not.”

  Her mouth tightens to a thin line as her eyes slide away. She looks so tired. “You shouldn’t have come here, Flynn. Your face is on every holoboard in town. Kidnapping an officer? What’s going on?”

  “It’s an incredibly long story. Listen, Sof, I’ve got nowhere to go. I came here because…because I thought you might understand.”

  “Nowhere?” Her brow furrows, and I realize no one’s told her about the massacre, about my choice to save Jubilee. “But the caves…”

  I swallow hard. Three days, and I still can’t speak about it. “McBride and the others want me even more than the soldiers do. I made a choice, and they don’t understand why.”

  Sofia’s eyes widen a little, but she’s too good at concealing her feelings to show me anything else. “What did you do?”

  “I saved a soldier’s life. After she—” I clench my jaw, trying to keep control of myself. “It was the Fury.”

  Her gaze shifts, falling on the oversize waders by the door before coming to rest on me, her own grief welling up in response to mine.

  “I just need a place to sleep for a night,” I whisper. “And some answers. I know it’s dangerous. I’ll be gone by morning.”

  “Come,” she says softly. “I’ll draw some water, and you can get clean. You can borrow some of my father’s clothes.” She speaks without a hitch in her voice, but despite the long years we’ve been separated by this fight we’ve inherited, I still know her well. I can see the pain drawn clear on her face. “You’ll stay here with me as long as you need to.”

  My heart thuds hard, fear and relief warring with each other. “I can’t accept that, Sof. They find me here and they’ll arrest you too. How can you—”

  “Because you tried to save her from this Fury,” she interrupts, voice quickening with the same fire I remember from when we were children. “Because if someone had tried to save my father, I would’ve kept them hidden until the soldiers came to drag me from this house.”

  It takes four basins of frigid water before the dirty washcloth wrings out clear, but Sofia keeps bringing new buckets from the pump anyway. Though the shirt and trousers she finds for me are far too large, the feel of clean, dry fabric without a trace of blood or grime is bliss. But once I’m sitting on the floor in front of the tiny stove, my thoughts return; my eyes are on the cuffs of my trousers, which have been carefully mended over and over again. The stitches are neat and orderly; the thread is a faded butter-yellow.

  When Sofia sits down, handing me a thick, doughy slice of what we locals call arán, I notice the thread mending her father’s cuffs matches the color of her tunic, which is a few inches shorter than it ought to be.

  I close my eyes, the arán suddenly tasting like ash in my mouth. This isn’t her fight—and yet it is. It’s all of ours. I just wish it weren’t coming to this violent end.

  “Don’t you need to eat too?” I ask once I’ve managed to swallow.

  She shrugs, eyes on the glowing red coils of the stove. “Seems like all I do now is eat and sleep. People keep bringing me food. But I can’t eat it all—there’s only me now, after all.”

  It’s always been just Sofia and her father, since we were children. Her mother left when the first rebellion started heating up, and as far as I know, Sofia hasn’t heard from her since. I glance at the table piled high with offerings from the town. “It was you, wasn’t it?” I lower my voice, though we’re alone. “The girl in the security footage, right before…right before.”

  Her face tightens, eyes closing as she swallows hard, cheeks flushed. I want to take her hand, show her I feel this agony too, but the tension singing through her body keeps me still. “You know,” she whispers, “you’d think the worst part about this would be the looks I get. It wasn’t all soldiers who died in the explosion. People here lost family too. They all look at me like I should have known it was about to happen, or stopped it. But I don’t care.” Her voice thins and catches roughly. “I just miss my dad.”

  Her grief catches at mine, resonating hollow in my chest. Loneliness shouldn’t be the worst of this; the thing that makes my heart hurt shouldn’t be how much I miss the trodaire I’ve only known for a few weeks. Because the Fury took her from me too. “There was nothing for you to know,” I murmur. “This never should have happened.”

  She inhales sharply, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “It wasn’t him, Flynn. I know they’ve got footage, I know they’re saying he had the detonator. But he wasn’t planning anything. He didn’t want any part in the fight. He’d been vague, tired, but I thought it was just the stress of his new job on the base. He’d never have done anything to risk my life, and even if somehow he was forced, I’d have seen it in him.” Her gaze is distant, replaying those last minutes. “I would have known.”

  “I believe you, Sof.” My eyes fall on the bandages again.

  “Well, if you believe me, you’re the only one who does.” She meets my eyes, the sharp edge of bitterness showing through. “The trodairí say the families always deny their loved ones are capable of violence.”

  “This Fury—this thing we thought was a trodairí excuse—it’s real. I’ve seen it.” I force myself to take another bite of the arán. I’m ravenous, and yet each mouthful is a hard lump in my throat. “And if it touched your father too, then it’s getting worse.”

  “I was the one who got him the job on the base.” She’s still, betraying nothing with her body language. “Taking samples, being in that cold water all day, it was making his arthritis so bad he could barely walk in the mornings. I talked the military supply officers into hiring him as a stocker.”

  Even as a child, Sofia’s silver tongue could get us out of any scrape.

  “If it weren’t for me,” she whispers, her hollow eyes fixed on the waders still standing by the door, “he wouldn’t have even been there.”

  In the morning, I’m ripped from sleep by the clatter of hail on the roof, and I lurch up with a rush of adrenaline. Shabby prefab walls surround me, and for a wild moment I’m completely disoriented. Then it comes to me: I’m at Sofia’s, sleeping in her father’s old room.

  And that sound isn’t hail. It’s distant gunfire.

  I clamber from under the thin blanket, dazed, stumbling to my feet and hauling open the back door. The muddy, makeshift streets of the town are full of people rushing this way and that as civilians try to find cover. The gunfire’s echoing from beyond, out in the swamp. The military’s increased patrols must have found McBride and his men—or else McBride has drawn them into a trap. Tactics my sister invented. Tactics I helped hand down.

  Whole platoons of soldiers run double-time toward the sounds of fighting. There’s no sign of Jubilee, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if she was among them. When they’re all wearing their helmets and their body armor and power packs for ammo, it’s impossible to even tell the men from the women. They all look alike.

  A hand wraps around my arm and jerks me back. “They’ll see you,” hisses Sofia, face flushed with sleep and fear. She throws her father’s shirt at me, making me realize I’m still half naked, sleep dazed, then shoves me away from the back exit.

  The door slams, but I can still hear the smattering of shots fired, far away.

  The fighting continues throughout the day, echoing from different spots; the shifts mean McBrid
e’s still out there, if not winning, then at least holding his own. The military have advanced weapons, greater numbers—but McBride and the Fianna know this land far better than soldiers who can’t last more than a month or two before being reassigned.

  Sofia ventures out a couple of times, bringing back bits and fragments of information with her. Through her I learn that open hostilities have broken out despite the base’s added security, that the rebels in the swamps are attacking guerrilla-style—drawing out the soldiers with hit-and-run tactics, getting them out where they’re vulnerable. It forces the military to play their game, to fight them on the ground, taking away the technological edge the organized troops have over us.

  It’s agony not running out there to stop it, or to help. Is Sean out there? Would he shoot if he saw me? I’d give anything for a chance to talk to him, to make him hear me and understand why I stood between him and Jubilee. His anguish is with me every moment—the instant he lifted his gun, all our years together not enough to bridge the gap between us. The crack of his gun still echoes in my ears. Did his shot miss me because he jerked his hand aside at the last second? Or was he simply shaking too hard to aim true?

  Sofia tries to put me to work to distract me, pointing out furniture that needs fixing and leaks in the ceiling her father always meant to get to. My hands do the work, but my mind is frantic, leaping back into panic every time I hear a shot from a new direction.

  “Do you think she’s out there?” Sofia asks finally, watching me drop the screwdriver for the third time as I try to fix a wobbly chair. “The trodaire you saved?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply tightly. “Probably.”

  “I can’t believe she just left you, after that, with nowhere to go.” Despite what she’s said, I can hear the disgust and fear in Sofia’s voice every time she speaks of the soldiers, of Jubilee.

  “I left her,” I whisper. The screwdriver feels like lead, and I let my hand fall to rest on my thigh. “I saved her because I need her alive. I can’t find out what’s happening alone, but I can’t—” My voice cuts out as abruptly as if I’d been punched in the gut.

  Sofia doesn’t respond right away. “I’m sorry,” she says after a drawn-out silence, her voice much softer now. “I know the pain of sitting, and waiting, and knowing answers may never come.” I lift my head to find her watching me, her gray eyes thoughtful, concerned. “What can I do?” she asks finally.

  “You’ve done too much already,” I reply. “I’ll be gone soon. I can’t let you take this risk.” I just wish I knew where I was going to go next.

  “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone,” she replies, voice sharpening. “I’ll choose my own risks, Flynn.”

  When I look back she’s staring at me, hard, her hands tightening into fists. I remember her as a child always being so careful not to reveal anything through her body language, through her voice; a natural at reading others, she never wanted to be read. Now, I wonder if she’s choosing to let me see this. Choosing to show me this need.

  “There’s a place,” I say slowly, “where she’ll leave a message if she learns something. But I can’t risk going there.”

  “Where is it?” she asks immediately.

  “Molly Malone’s, on the base.”

  “Keep the doors locked and the lights off until I get back.”

  The girl is waiting, listening to the heavily synthesized tech-rock ballad playing on the jukebox. The green-eyed boy was supposed to meet her at Molly’s, but every time the door opens, it’s someone else. A tall woman with blond hair takes the stool on the opposite end of the bar; a soldier with warm eyes and a laughing redhead on his arm occupy the corner in the back; a guy with pink hair tries to buy the girl a drink, but she doesn’t want a drink, and he eventually gives up.

  Her mother sits down on the stool next to hers, trying to get the girl’s attention.

  But the girl won’t listen. “I’m supposed to meet someone,” she insists. “I’m not supposed to have to do this alone.”

  Even the ghost from Verona has gone.

  FOUR DAYS AND THERE’S BEEN no word from Flynn; he hasn’t even gotten the message I left for him at Molly’s telling him to sit tight. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve found nothing since, despite my efforts to comb through the records in the security office, despite examining the security feed of Davin Quinn before the bombing. I find a few frames of myself the night of the massacre, passing through the cameras on the north end of the base, heading for a boat. I don’t remember doing it, but there I am. I can’t see my own face, but I act like me, I move like me. I’ve heard nothing more from Merendsen either—my one lead, my one hope.

  I check the bar again and get only a sympathetic head shake from Molly. I try to contain my frustration as I stalk away from the bar, headed for my bunk. Luckily, I’m not known for being all sunshine and light, so if I’m looking a little pissed off, no one’s going to think it’s strange. I can’t remember how I’d act if everything was normal.

  Luckily for me, nothing is normal anymore. Our base is now a war zone, and we’re under siege. For now we can still get people and supplies in and out by air, but munitions has reported a number of surface-to-air launchers missing, and there’s speculation that the rebels have them. And that it’s only a matter of time before they start using them on military vessels coming and going.

  I punch open the door to my quarters, making the rickety prefab walls quiver. It’s only after pulling off my boots and throwing my jacket over my chair that I see the monitor in my desk is up and its light is blinking at me. A priority message. It can’t be good if it’s from the brass.

  Maybe it’s from Merendsen.

  I throw myself down into the chair, pressing my palm to the screen to turn it on and register my identity. It takes the machine a few seconds to boot up, my heart pounding in the silence. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for one of the machines they’ve got at HQ that goes from dormant to fully functional faster than your eye can follow the monitor. It’s been four days; perhaps that’s long enough that he’s found out when the next transport is swinging through whatever isolated planet he’s on.

  Finally the monitor flashes to life, and I navigate through until I see the message that tripped my alert—it’s from Commander Towers. Not Merendsen. My chest tightens with disappointment and apprehension. Though I know it’s impossible, some part of me panics that she’s discovered what I did at the Fianna hideout, or my distress call to LaRoux’s soon-to-be son-in-law, or that I’ve begun systematically betraying every oath I’ve ever taken in order to help a rebel save his people—and mine.

  I expect a video message, but when I open it up it’s only a few lines of text.

  TerraDyn’s sending a field expert to evaluate the base’s security effort after the recent attacks. He left to come here before the current situation erupted, but has decided to land despite the risks. I’m putting you in charge of his detail. Given your recent experiences, you’ve got the most insight into what’s going on out there. Be dressed and at my office by 1900.—AT

  My heart sinks even lower. How am I supposed to find answers, conceal my connection to Flynn, keep the rebels from overrunning the base, and meet with Merendsen when he arrives, if I’ve got some polished-up “expert” from a shiny city planet following me around the base?

  I glance at the clock and groan. I’ve got ten minutes to figure out where the hell my dress uniform is and get to Central Command.

  The girl is standing in the background, running a hand through her hair, leaning back against the lush wallpaper as though it might swallow her if she presses close enough.

  A young woman with red hair and piercing blue eyes is applying makeup in a mirror to a face familiar from screens and billboards. She’s blotting her flawless lipstick when she spots the girl and turns with a gasp of dismay.

  “You poor thing,” she exclaims. “You need a dress, or the boys will never dance with you.”

  The girl tries to protest, but the youn
g woman with red hair can’t hear her, and wraps her up in a long, gently shimmering dress the color of sunrise on Avon. When the girl looks in the mirror, she doesn’t recognize herself—she’s been transformed, changed forever. For the first time, she takes a breath and sees the reflection smile back. She turns, admiring the dress, which is the color of hope.

  But then the girl notices a spot on the fabric. She rubs at it, but her fingers make it worse, smearing the stain. With both hands, she tries to wipe the stain away, desperate to keep anyone from seeing. She scrubs harder, but it’s her hands that are staining it, and every effort leaves behind red streaks, until the whole dress is the color of blood, and she’s sobbing with horror and shame and guilt, but the blood never washes clean, it never washes clean.

  I CAN’T STOP REREADING THE WORDS. I may have found something. Just sit tight. There’s no name attached, but the existence of the note itself tells me who it’s from. “Are you sure this is all there was?”

  Sofia, shedding her jacket and stomping the mud from her boots, raises an eyebrow at me. “You think there was another half and I decided to leave it behind?” The jacket goes on its peg, the boots lined up next to her father’s. Everything in its place. It’s been years since I lived in a house like this.