These Broken Stars

by Amie Kaufman

  I look over the dents and damage on the tanks, and finger the uneven length of rope we’ve found for a fuse. Suddenly I’m not so sure this is as foolproof as I’d thought. There are so many ways it could go wrong.

  As the sun slants through the trees, close to the horizon, Tarver drags the last of the fallen saplings away and then arches his back until it pops.

  I move toward him and he lifts his arm without looking, knowing I’ll be there. I slip beneath it, wrap my arms around his waist.

  “Do we do it now?” I rest my mouth against his chest, eyes turned up to look at him. Let him be the judge of when we start being rescued. I can’t see it objectively. I so badly want it and don’t—I’m caught so tightly between staying and going.

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘it,’ ” he says, letting his fingers creep in against my arm under the edge of my T-shirt sleeve.

  “Quit it,” I reply, though I doubt he’ll take me seriously with laughter in my voice.

  “Not tonight,” he says before leaning down to kiss me. It’s a long moment before he speaks again. “We’ll wait until there’s good light, when we’re sure we’re ready. Tomorrow.”

  “If people were stationed here, there could be food inside. Hot water, maybe, if there’s a generator inside. Beds too.” I grin at him. “Though I suppose not having a bed hasn’t really been a problem for us so far.”

  Tarver lifts an eyebrow, shifting his weight and wrapping both arms around me. “No, but the ground does have its limitations.”

  He leans down to kiss me again, his bandaged hand sliding up my side under my shirt, and that reminder of his injury—how close I came to losing him—sends a jolt through me. I can’t let him be the one to do this. We don’t know how volatile the fuel tanks are, or how fast the fuse will burn.

  I let him kiss me for a while, wait until I feel him make the soft, growly noise he usually makes before he tries to remove some item of my clothing. Let him be as distracted as possible, before I try to do this. Because he’s not going to like it.

  I pull my mouth away a fraction and murmur, “I’ll start testing fuses tomorrow morning. I don’t relish the idea of losing a hand lighting this thing.”

  Tarver starts to lean in again, but then stops, frowning at me a little. “I don’t relish the idea of you losing a hand either. I like both of yours. I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I say, trying out my best, most capable smile. I can’t let him see how desperately I need him to believe me. How much I need him to not get hurt if something goes wrong. “I did this all the time when I was a kid, my father never knew.”

  He’s still frowning, something lurking in his expression—fear? I can’t make it out. “I know how to take a hit,” he says. “How to drop and protect myself in an explosion.”

  “But I won’t need to do that, because I know what I’m doing. I’m not trying to be a hero or anything. I’ll be perfectly safe. If something did go wrong, if something happened to you, I’d last a grand total of ten seconds out here by myself. But if something happened to me, you’d be just fine.”

  He’s gazing at me like I’ve just offered to stab him in the gut. I can almost see him fighting with himself. But I’m right, and if nothing else he’ll have to see my conviction. I can see his fevered face in my mind’s eye, and my throat constricts just remembering how close I was to losing him. I can’t let that happen again.

  “It’s a simple risk–reward analysis,” I murmur. “You taught me that.”

  Tarver lifts one hand to touch my face, tracing the curve of my cheek. “Lilac, if something happened to you,” he murmurs, “I would be anything but fine.”

  I reach up to take his hand, curl my fingers through his.

  “Lilac, are you sure?”

  I squeeze his hand, looking up at him, letting him see the confidence, the easy knowledge. I can do this. I will him to see it, with every fiber of my being. I can’t let him light the fuse. I can’t watch him put himself in danger again.

  “Positive.”

  His gaze searches mine for a few moments as I hold my breath. Then he ducks his head to kiss my forehead, and turns to lead the way back to the cave.

  There aren’t many things my old life prepared me for. Not many skills developed in the world of society, of balls and dresses and intrigue, apply out here in the wild, with this man I would’ve never known but for this strange twist of fate.

  But at least I’m still a good liar.

  “You were found not far from the structure. Can you clarify what happened to it?”

  “I was trying to get inside. Whoever left it last was inconsiderate enough to lock the doors, so we had to get creative.”

  “And was Miss LaRoux involved in this act of vandalism?”

  “Vandalism? We were trying to survive.”

  “Shall I repeat the question?”

  “Of course she wasn’t.”

  “And yet you say you were together the entire time.”

  “Miss LaRoux isn’t the kind of girl to get her hands dirty. She waited in the woods, out of harm’s way.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  TARVER

  “I wonder if the kitchen’s still working. Just think, real food could be on the other side of that door.” She wants to distract me that night, keep us from revisiting the conversation about the fuse. I’ve considered telling her that if she wants to distract me, all she has to do is take her shirt off.

  “I hope so.” My head hurts with misgivings. I know it’s smarter to let her light it. She’s done it before. If she’s hurt, I can help her better. She’s less likely to be hurt.

  And still.

  “A bed too, no more sleeping on the ground.”

  I squeeze her. “You do keep ending up back at the bed. You have a preoccupation, Miss LaRoux.”

  “Any objections?” She’s arch, smug, running a hand up my arm. If I were wearing a shirt, she’d be tugging on my sleeve, summoning me for a kiss as though she can’t bear to be apart any longer. She’s noticed she can make me forget my words halfway through a sentence.

  “Objections? Hell, no.” I’m so tempted to let her have her way, to just give in to her attempts to distract me. She can make my mind shut down faster than anyone I’ve ever met. But I’m still not sure. “Maybe we just leave the building,” I suggest quietly. “Let it stay as it is. Do we really need to get inside this badly?”

  Her hand stops, and she pulls back far enough to look at me. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Lilac.” I trace her cheekbone with my fingertips, watch the color spring to her fair skin at my touch. “I know how dangerous this is.”

  “It’s our only chance at being rescued. There has to be communications equipment inside, something we can use to send a distress signal.”

  Maybe being rescued isn’t my top priority anymore. The words are there, just not the courage to say them. Instead, I pull her closer, tightening my arm around her waist. “I hope so. We don’t even know why this place was abandoned. Something to do with the whispers, I suppose, but what exactly?”

  “Secrets upon secrets,” Lilac murmurs. Before I can ask what she means, she draws in one of those slow, careful breaths that mean she’s organizing her thoughts before she speaks. “You said there were rumors about the military experimenting with mind control and telepathy. Maybe corporations are too. What if that’s what this is?”

  It’s a little disconcerting that Lilac thinks best in bed. My brain pretty much flatlines under the same circumstances. “You think they discovered these beings, and then hid this place from the rest of the galaxy so they could study them.”

  “I don’t know what’s on this planet, Tarver, but whatever—whoever—it is, they can do things. See into our hearts, change our dreams, make us think things. They can create objects out of thin air. Who knows what else they can do? I know that any corporation, or the military for that matter, would stop at nothing for power like that.”

  I’m trying to igno
re the sick feeling in my stomach, but I know she’s right. There aren’t many corporations with the resources to terraform planets that are known for their compassion and moral fiber.

  “Whatever’s going on,” Lilac continues, “the whispers led us here. The answers are inside that building. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  I find a grin. “Tomorrow,” I echo, giving her a squeeze.

  She curls against me, tucking herself perfectly along my side. “What will we do, if we’re rescued? After we’ve finished eating and drinking and smiling for the cameras?”

  “You’ll be smiling for the cameras,” I correct her, laughing.

  “You’ll have your fair share,” she tells me. “You’re the one who saved the life of Roderick LaRoux’s only daughter. It’ll be hard to slip away.”

  “My commanding officer will sort it out. I’ll get a week to go home and show my parents I’m whole, then a posting somewhere quiet for a while. Very quiet, if we’ve seen things we’re not supposed to.” Her skin’s so impossibly soft. My hands feel rough against it as I run my palm down her side.

  She’s quiet for a little, holding still against me, not leaning into my hand as she usually does. I wait, and let her turn it over in her mind. Eventually she speaks again. “You’ll just—disappear?” The question’s very soft. “What about you and me? What happens to us, if you just vanish?”

  I have no flippant answer for her, no deflection this time. I don’t know what happens to us. It’s the question I’ve been trying to avoid every second of every day since we saw the building on the horizon, and discovered the possibility of rescue after all.

  “I’m not fourteen anymore.” She lifts herself up on one elbow, gazing at me. “My father is powerful, changing the galaxy to suit him, but he’s not going to change this. He’s strong, but I’d fight him.” Her blue eyes are grave, determined—calm. “I’d fight for you.”

  She’s stolen my breath. My hand tightens at her waist until she makes a soft sound of protest, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m hurting her. I want to kiss her until she’s as lost as I am. My heart fills my chest.

  But I’ve seen what happens when people go back to the real world. I’ve seen what happens when they’re reunited with their friends, their families. When the everyday rhythms reassert themselves, little currents pulling and tugging them back into the stream of life. Right now this is what she wants, but when she’s back in a life with no room for someone like me? If I let her make these promises and then have to watch her return to her old life, leaving me and all we’ve gone through behind … I’m not sure I can survive that.

  With an effort I force myself to start breathing again.

  “Lilac.” My voice sounds weak even to me. “Neither of us should make promises like that.”

  She swallows. “Are you saying that because you aren’t sure, or because you think I’m not?”

  “I’m saying I don’t think it’s as simple as either of us would like it to be.”

  “It’s the simplest thing in the world,” she whispers, leaning down to brush her lips against mine. “But I don’t mind waiting until you’re sure. You’ll come around.”

  I want to tell her I’ve already come around, that I was there before she was—that I’d face down an army of paparazzi and her father to boot if she asked me.

  But she doesn’t know how it can all change when you get back to civilization. And I won’t hold her to promises she can’t keep.

  She takes her time over preparations in the morning. At least this much was true—she does seem to know what she’s doing when it comes to blowing things up. No wonder they kept this side of her under wraps—this is hardly an acceptable hobby for the well-bred.

  She has me stack the fuel tanks six different ways, she paces out distances, tries different fuses. She dumps out some of the fuel—to leave room in the tanks for vapors, she says. I spend my time clearing anything that might cause damage if it flies through the air, until I’m combing the area for twigs and pebbles and even I have to admit none of them could so much as bruise her. After that I sit at the foot of a tree and watch her.

  She’s incredible. She’s so composed, so determined, twitching the fuse with two fingers to change the angle a little. There are moments like this when I can actually imagine her at my parents’ cottage. I can see her hauling wood with the rest of us, chopping vegetables, going for long walks and calling it entertainment. I think my parents would like her.

  I can see her happy there. I just wish I knew whether I’m only seeing what I want so badly to see.

  Crouched by the end of the fuse, she looks over her shoulder and smiles at me, and I smile back, helpless.

  Then I realize that she’s bending her head to strike a match, and something clicks together in my head. She can’t. She mustn’t. My daydreams scatter and I scramble to my feet, too slow, helpless—I don’t know how I know, but every instinct I have is screaming at me as she leans down to touch the flame to the fuse.

  The little spark races up the string fuse, too fast. The wind picks up, and the fuse burns quicker, leaping up toward the barrels.

  She spots it as I do, and she whirls away from it. I stand helplessly by the tree. I can’t move.

  She makes it seven steps before the fuel tanks explode.

  The flames blossom out behind her, and the boom comes an instant later. The building’s tearing open like a tin can, and Lilac’s thrown through the air like she weighs nothing at all. She hits the ground with a thud, rolling over and over as debris rains down around her. My body fails me, locking in place and keeping me from her. I rip my foot from where I’m rooted to the ground and finally start moving. She’s facedown, unmoving, lying amid a dozen tiny grass fires as the last light particles fall around us.

  I throw myself down beside her, turn her over with a hand at her shoulder and one at her hip. My throat is frozen, unable to even whisper her name. She lets me move her without protest, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other reaching weakly up for me.

  Her face is white, but apart from the dirt smudges and the bruise across her cheek, she looks unscathed. For the first time since the explosion, I feel myself take a full breath.

  “That was exciting,” she murmurs, her eyes still closed. “Did it work?”

  “I think they saw it from space,” I whisper, leaning down over her to press my forehead to hers. “Are you all right?”

  “Shh.” Her voice is almost inaudible. “Tarver, I need you to—” She breaks off to groan softly, her mouth tightening, eyes squeezing tighter shut, pinched with pain.

  My heart contracts. “Lilac, tell me what hurts.”

  Her hand curls around my sleeve, the way she usually summons me for a kiss. She opens her eyes with a visible effort, blinking until she can focus on me. “Just listen, okay? When you get inside—should be a generator. You have to—to get enough power for a signal.”

  “Lilac, stop, that doesn’t matter.” She’s in pain somewhere, though I can’t see where. My hands are shaking as I start unbuttoning her shirt. “We’ll handle that when we get inside.”

  “Don’t think we will,” she whispers, hoarse. Then she lifts her hand away from where it’s wrapped around her middle, and shows me what she’s hiding, what she’s holding together. A tangle of bloodstained shirt and skin, the glint of metal embedded deep.

  I can’t hear, can’t see, can’t think.

  My body knows what to do, though. “Put the pressure back on, keep your hand on it.” My voice snaps orders like I’m out in the field. I scramble across to our pack to haul out the first-aid supplies she salvaged from the Icarus, sending bottles and bandages flying in every direction as I dig for the one vial that matters. “Keep your hand on it, we have a coagulant.”

  “Don’t.” Her voice is weak, though she presses her hand back over the wound. “You’ll need it later, until help comes.”

  “I need it now.” Finally I find it, tearing the wrapper off a needle and scrambling back to her on
hands and knees. Breathe in—one, two. Breathe out—one, two. My hand steadies. I fit the bottle to the needle, watching as it fills, lifting it, tapping it free of bubbles.

  It’s not enough. I know that as I slide the needle into her skin. It can’t stop this kind of bleeding. The shrapnel went straight through her gut. This injection can’t sew her back together.

  “Please,” she whispers, flinching.

  I throw the empty needle aside and haul my shirt off over my head, lifting her hand and pressing the fabric against her abdomen. “I’m here, Lilac, I’m here. I promise. I’m right beside you.”

  She pushes weakly at my arm, shock overtaking sense as her gaze slides past me to the sky beyond. “This is why it’s better. I’d be in pieces, if it were you.”

  I am in pieces, Lilac.

  But my body keeps moving, my mouth keeps talking. “Stop it, I’ve seen this before. We can fix this.” I press down on the wound and reach out with my other hand to touch her cheek, trying to guide her gaze back to my face. I want her to look at me.

  She whimpers, and the sound breaks my heart. “Tarver, it’s okay. Don’t start lying to me again. I’m not afraid.” But she’s crying, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes and running down her temples, leaving pale tracks in the dirt.

  I don’t know what to say. Words abandon me.

  “Tell my daddy—” She breaks off to cough, and blood trickles down from the corner of her mouth. I see the confusion start to take her. I’ve seen this before, too.

  No. Please, no.

  Her hand lifts to grab at me, finding my arm and clutching tight. “Tarver.” Her whisper’s a gurgle, the blood in her throat now. “I lied. I’m—I don’t want to die.” Her blue eyes are wide and terrified as she gazes past me.

  I’m shaking as I ease down to stretch out beside her, pressing my forehead to her temple, whispering my words against her skin. “I’m here.” I can barely make myself loud enough, but I think she hears me. “I promise, I’m right here, Lilac. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave.”