These Broken Stars

by Amie Kaufman

  I avert my eyes as he tends to the small, furred creatures he brings back, the fruits of his traps. I’m hungry enough that I’ll eat them, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch him gut them. He keeps up a steady stream of his stories as he works to distract me and cover the sounds, stories about his platoon, each more outrageous than the last. In the growing dark I can almost feel as though we are comfortable together, as though he enjoys my company rather than merely tolerating it—as though he’s volunteering these stories because he wants to make me laugh, not just keep me moving.

  I watch as he builds the fire, paying attention for once. I should have been doing this from the start, in case he did leave me on my own—but now I don’t watch out of fear. Now I just want to know so I can help. He’s able only to have the tiniest of fires here due to the lack of fuel, nothing to help keep us warm tonight. But it’s enough to cook minuscule slivers of the meat, and for the first time since crashing on the planet my stomach feels as though it’s full of something real.

  My eyes grow heavy as I huddle by the smoking remains of the fire. Tarver sits writing in that notebook of his by the last of the light, head bent low and close to the pages. The sun has set while we cooked, and what was a mildly unpleasant evening chill has turned into a piercing cold mitigated not at all by the tatters of my green dress. My cheer has plum-meted with the temperature, and with his absence when he puts away his notebook and goes to deposit the remains of our dinner far enough away to avoid attracting visitors in the night. He doesn’t think the giant cats come out on the plains, but as he says, better safe than sorry.

  I can’t help but wonder how many times over I would’ve died out here without Tarver keeping me alive.

  When he returns I lift my head, but I’m too tired to try harder than that. Though I can feel the dynamic between us changing, I still don’t quite know how to talk to him. Wounded pride and bruised confidence keep me from saying what I wish I could say. I drop my head back onto my knees.

  “Miss LaRoux.” Tarver crouches down beside me, a movement I know now so well I don’t need to see him to register it. “Lilac. It’s too cold out here on the plains. There’s not enough fuel to keep a fire going, and the wind is that much colder than in the forest.”

  “No kidding.”

  He laughs, and I realize I’ve borrowed his words. I sound like a soldier. I feel my cheeks beginning to heat. “If you insist,” he continues, watching me, “we can sleep back-to-back. But it’ll be warmer if you let me put an arm around you and tuck the blankets around us. I promise to think only the purest of thoughts.”

  Surely he can see my face burning even in the darkness. I turn it away, letting the chilly wind cool my cheeks, as the rest of me shivers. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pretend I’m—” I shrug, shake my head. I’m not angry with him, but there’s anger in my voice anyway. At my body’s betrayal, the way I can’t control my blush. How awkward he makes me feel, as though we’re partners in a dance where I don’t know the steps. Like I’m the ignorant one.

  I try to summon some dignity, a last-ditch effort. At least I don’t have to look like I’m foolish enough to think he’s an admirer. “I know I’m not your choice of—of companions. This is as much a trial for you as for me.”

  At that he laughs again, this time not bothering to do so quietly. It’s a full laugh, rich and without restraint, nothing like the genteel twitters and chuckles in society. My mouth wants to respond with a smile, even as the rest of me recoils, certain he’s making fun of me.

  He gets to his feet, shaking out the blankets and making up a bed. One bed, tonight. “Miss LaRoux, before you martyr yourself, I should warn you that I’ve had to curl up with my large and hairy corporal under certain undesirable circumstances. By comparison, a beautiful girl sounds like a vacation.”

  Beautiful? I’ve always been reasonably pretty—but enough money would turn even a cow into a catch. Still, aside from those first days on the Icarus, he’s never looked at me that way. He’s made it clear my status and money mean nothing to him. The opposite, in fact.

  I’m grateful for the darkness, that he can’t see my face. For him to see me incapable of concealing my smile for one tiny compliment? That would be the ultimate humiliation.

  I turn around, and he’s kneeling at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his thighs. He gestures for me to lie down first, barely visible through the darkening night. The first of the moons is yet to rise, and the stars overhead grow brighter by the second. The air is clear and cold and sharp.

  He’s right. Neither of us will sleep if I insist on separation. Part of me recoils from the very thought, too well trained. But who would know? There are no rescue teams flying over, no sign of my father’s cavalry coming for me. I can cave, just for one night. And it is so—tempting. To be warm, that is.

  I swallow and creep forward to slip beneath the blanket, making myself as small as possible. “Only while we’re on the plains and can’t have a fire.” The words come before I have a chance to stop them. He’ll think I’m disparaging his gesture. Why can’t I just accept his offer?

  But he just nods, readying himself for bed, unhooking his holster to set it beside us and placing the flashlight nearby. When he lifts the edge of the blanket to lie down, it brings a rush of cold air, and I curl up more tightly.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs, voice not far from my ear. “Close your eyes, you’ll be warm in a minute.”

  He’s not subtle about making himself comfortable, reaching out to wrap an arm around my waist and draw me close. His body is warmer than mine, and after a moment he lifts his hand to rub my arm. I try not to shiver at his touch, at the heat of his palm on the chilled skin exposed by my idiotic dress.

  Eventually he stills again, ducking his head so that his nose brushes the back of my neck, and his breath stirs my hair. Already his breathing is slowing, lengthening—I envy his ability to sleep anywhere, in any position, without hesitation. Every nerve of mine is alive, tingling, feeling every shift he makes.

  I’ve never been this close to someone like him before. I close my eyes with difficulty, stifling an insane urge to turn within the circle of his arm to face him. It’s such a stupid thing to think, and guilt and anger surge in to follow the thought.

  It’s not difficult to see the way he looks at me, even though he tries now to hide his impatience and annoyance. How quickly one’s delusions come crashing down—the soldiers aren’t watching us society folk, wishing they could touch us. They’re laughing at us in our bright dresses and parasols, our immaculately re-created drawing rooms and parlors. And what was funny in the sparkling world of the Icarus is simply pathetically ridiculous down here, in the kind of world they live in day to day. I’m not even close to the type of girl he’d want, just as I’ve been signaling at every opportunity that he’s the last man in the galaxy I’d want to touch.

  The only difference is that I was wrong.

  How long I lie there, listening to the slow beat of his heart and the frenetic dance of my own, I’m not sure. One of this planet’s moons has begun to rise beyond the trees, casting a cold blue light across the plain and edging the grass with a frosty glow. The wind has died, but over the whisper of Tarver’s breath stirring my hair, another sound breaks the quiet.

  My breath condenses in the cold air as I exhale. I squeeze my eyes more tightly, as if somehow I can block out the sound of the incomprehensible voice echoing across the night if I try hard enough.

  “Go away,” I whisper into the darkness, my body tensing, starting to shake. Bad enough these voices invade my thoughts—but they seem to invade my body too, destroying my control, leaving me a shivering pile of confusion and fear. Behind me, Tarver senses it and mumbles something against my skin, the arm around me tightening.

  The voice continues unabated. I know Tarver doesn’t hear it, or else he’d be awake and holding his gun in an instant. I turn my face into the pack we’re using as a pill
ow, try to think of the music I used to listen to back on the Icarus, even cover my ears with my hands, trying to make them work despite the twitching of my muscles.

  On and on it whispers, into the night, each passing moment multiplying the torment. A tear squeezes out beneath my lashes, rapidly growing frigid in the cold and tracing an icy path down my temple to join the cold sweat that’s broken out all over. This time there’s a strange taste in my mouth too, a metallic tang that doesn’t go away no matter how many times I swallow.

  I’m going mad.

  “Tarver.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, emerging as a tight and wobbly thing I almost don’t recognize as my own. “Do you hear that?” I don’t even know why I ask. I already know he doesn’t.

  If it had been one of my friends, I would have had to shake them; with Tarver, my whisper is enough. He comes awake instantly, body going from lax and peaceful to tense and alert.

  “Sorry,” he whispers back, his lips not far from my ear. “I was asleep. What was it?”

  The voice is still murmuring some distance away, in the direction of the mountains that lie between us and the Icarus, as if beckoning me on. Meaning slips away as though I’ve forgotten how to comprehend language.

  “I hear them now,” I whisper. I barely register the fact that my body is shaking violently. I’m too ragged to care that he sees me so low. “Please,” I add, my heart shrinking inside me, “please just tell me that you hear it too.”

  “Lilac,” he begins, reaching up to curl his hand around my upper arm. Warm. Steadying.

  “Please.”

  He reaches up and brushes the hair back from my face, an uncharacteristically tender gesture. As he drops his thumb to my cheek to brush away the dampness there, he murmurs, “Promise me that no matter what you hear, you won’t go off on your own to investigate. I want your word.” There’s a command in his voice, soft as it is.

  I want to tell him that leaving his side is the last thing I want to do right now, but my throat has closed completely, and I can do nothing but curl up more tightly and nod. He keeps his arm around me, holding me through the shivering. I ought to be scandalized at his closeness, demand he keep his distance, but my mind is too full of the things I wish I could say. His touch just feels right.

  “We’ll work it out,” he says. “There’s a reason for it. Maybe when you hit your head in the pod—that was a beautiful shiner you gave yourself. At least you don’t have the taste of dead rat in your mouth, hmm? A soldier in my platoon got that on Avon. Couldn’t taste anything else for weeks after she smacked her head.”

  I recognize his tone. He’s trying to cheer me up as he did before. He needs me moving, and to keep me moving he has to keep me sane. He doesn’t know that I’m tasting blood and copper at the back of my mouth. I draw in a shuddering breath.

  “Well,” I manage, summoning an even voice from God knows where, “if all she had to eat were those ration bars, maybe it’s best she couldn’t taste properly after all.”

  He laughs, the sound barely more than a quick exhalation by my ear. “You’re really something,” he says softly, giving me a tiny squeeze that nonetheless robs me of what breath I have left.

  A thrill runs down my spine, the tiniest of sparks to remind me I’m not lost yet. The tears are still there, clawing to get free, clogging my throat and my voice.

  “I think you’re doing incredibly well,” he continues. “Really, you’re coping much better than half the soldiers I know would in this situation. We’re both still on our feet, we’re heading in the right direction. We’re sticking together. That’s why we’ll be all right.”

  The lie is so blatant that it cracks my resolve. I can’t stand his pity, not now after everything.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. My cold lips fumble the words.

  “Don’t be.” His voice is a low rumble against me, the sound carrying through my bones, clearer than any of the voices I’ve been hearing. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I do too.” The dark of the night is like a shield of anonymity, despite the fact that we may well be the only two people on the planet. Curled up in these blankets, I might be in a confessional, and before I can stop myself the words that have been roiling around in my heart since he got me out of that tree come pouring out.

  “I’m sorry I can’t do things, I’m sorry you have to keep stopping for me, I’m sorry that you have to sit and watch me go mad. I’m sorry I ever dropped my glove for you to pick up.” For a moment I’m choked by my own voice.

  But none of this is what I really want to apologize for.

  “I’m sorry I said those things to you on the observation deck because Anna was there, because of who I am. It was mean and petty and I only said it because I couldn’t afford to let myself say anything else.”

  I can’t find the words for what I want to say next—that I’m not what he thinks, that I wish I had a picture that could make him understand, the way he showed me his life in one snapshot. I gasp for breath and fall silent.

  He doesn’t answer me right away, and for a few insane moments I think maybe his ability to sleep anywhere extends to dozing while faced with semi-hysterical girls blurting out apologies.

  Then his arm tightens around me, his breath warm against the back of my neck. The tangled words choking my throat ease, and let me take in a long, shaking breath.

  “I appreciate the apology.”

  From anyone else I’d know it was a platitude. But there’s a sincerity to his voice when he says it that tells me he means it.

  I shift, trying to get comfortable, and my eyes fall on one of the moons, which has cleared the plains. It’s the first time we’ve been able to see this one clearly, unobstructed by the forest canopy.

  “Tarver.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Look.”

  He lifts his head, and I feel the moment he sees it; his arms tense around me, his breath stops.

  What I’d always thought was a smaller, second moon is actually a grouping of cold blue lights, too steady to be any kind of aircraft, too regular to be any kind of asteroid cluster. Seven in all, arranged evenly in a circle, one in the middle.

  “What is it?” My voice is shaking, but this time it’s not from any vision.

  Tarver props himself up on one arm, staring over me at the phenomenon. He says nothing, and after a moment I turn to look at him. His face is set, jaw clenched—but he doesn’t look surprised. He looks thoughtful. “When the pod was going down,” he says slowly, “I saw something in orbit. Something other than the Icarus. Went by too fast for me to get a good look, but I could see enough to know it was man-made. How big would something like that have to be, to be visible like this?”

  I draw in a slow breath, mind running through the calculations. “Each of those objects would have to be dozens of kilometers across at least, to reflect that much sunlight.”

  Tarver lowers himself down again, arm circling my waist. His voice is soft and warm by my ear. “What is this place?”

  I have no answer for him, and we watch the false moon in silence. For a dizzying moment I see us as if from above, a tiny lump in the blue-black sea of grass, nearly swallowed by the vastness of the plains.

  At some point while we talked, the voice out in the night fell silent, and the tremors racking my body have calmed. And so I listen to Tarver’s breathing as it slows, and his heartbeat, and the breeze slipping through the long grass all around us, and eventually I sleep too.

  “Every planet has its eccentricities.”

  “That’s true.”

  “What did you notice about this one?”

  “The lack of company.”

  “Major, that’s unhelpful.”

  “I’m not trying to be unhelpful. I noticed it was a terraformed planet with no sign of a local population. I’ve been involved in six campaigns in two years, I never saw a planet without people before.”

  “What did you think of your prospects?”

  “I was real
istic about them. I’m realistic about them right now too.”

  SEVENTEEN

  TARVER

  I wake up because it’s raining. A fat raindrop lands right behind my ear, running down to somehow find a way inside my collar, freezing cold. I shiver and roll onto my back, and another smacks me right between the eyes.

  Lilac’s moving, stirring as I shift away from her, and she rolls over with a little protesting noise, reaching sleepily after me. Then she begins to register the raindrops as they connect with her skin, and she sits up straight with a gasp. I’m busy sitting up too, because when you go to sleep wrapped around a pretty girl, there are some things going on first thing in the morning that you don’t exactly want making headline news.

  So I’m shuffling into a slightly more diplomatic position and trying to look casual, and she’s staring across at me, all confusion and dawning alarm. I realize in my surprise I’ve grabbed for the Gleidel, and she thinks there’s some threat around.

  “Tarver?” She looks up, eyes huge. One of them is still a little puffy, the skin bruised and dark where her face hit the side of the escape pod. Then a raindrop splats against her upturned face, and she jerks back. As I watch her flinch, lifting her fingers to her face and staring astonished at her wet fingertips, it hits me: she’s never seen it before. In her world even the climate is controlled.

  “It’s raining,” I say, voice hoarse from sleep. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s fine. Straight from the clouds to you.”

  She frowns, still huddling over and trying to shelter from it. “Straight from the clouds? Is that hygienic?”

  I can’t help it. It starts out as a snicker, but I’m grinning, and there’s a tension inside me that snaps and releases, and a moment later I’m laughing so hard I can’t stop.

  She stares across at me, wondering if I’ve finally cracked. I reach for her hand and wind my fingers through hers, turning them so the rain patters down onto her palm. I trace a circle there with my thumb, smoothing the water into her skin. I want to show her there’s nothing to be afraid of.