“How could I stay mad when you’re so good at keeping me warm?” she murmurs. She finds my hand beneath the covers and brings it up to her mouth. Her lips are warm on my fingertips when she kisses them.
I utter a soft “Oh.” My eyes flutter closed.
Her mouth moves down my palm. I tense as she reaches my scar, but she doesn’t stop. She presses her lips against it, too, and then against my wrist, lingering on the tender skin there. I push her hair back, my breath rising, and press my body against hers. She raises her lips to mine, and for a moment, our eyes catch.
“Yeah?” I breathe.
“Yeah.”
All of me melts. This is nothing like the kissing bottle game. Kissing Cassia is like lying down in the still-warm evening sand. It is slow and sweet and full.
Cassia fumbles for my coat’s zipper and pulls it down off my shoulders. I shrug one arm out of it, ignoring the goose bumps rising, prickling my skin, and reach for Cassia’s coat in turn.
At that moment, a soft weight lands on my leg and pads its way up along my body, accompanied by a low rumbling sound.
“What . . . ?” I lift my head.
Tibbet pokes his face over the edge of the covers and stares down at us with his owlish yellow-green eyes, a choppy purr vibrating in his throat. Cassia and I catch each other’s eyes and burst out laughing.
“Tibbet.” Cassia groans and mock-glares at him. “You’re interrupting.”
He blinks lazily at her and hops onto her pillow, where he spends a few seconds purring like a corn diesel generator and kneading the stuffing, then flops down across the crown of Cassia’s head and commences to give himself another bath.
Cassia sighs. “He’s worse than my mother.”
“Should I put him out?” I ask. The moment is gone, but I’m fairly sure we could build it back up if we didn’t have company.
“No. I should rest anyway.” She glowers at Tibbet and then reaches up and scratches him behind the ears. “You’re a good heater, but you have terrible timing. You know that?”
The cat redoubles his generator noises in response.
I sit up and reluctantly throw the blankets from my legs. The cold is worse now that I’ve been so warm. “I should check on Rubio. Are you okay here?”
Cassia nods. “Tibbet’ll keep me company.”
I zip up my coat and shake a finger at the cat. “Not appreciated, sir. Not appreciated.”
I find Rubio righting the cryatine barrels. I should help him, I know, or at least thank him. After all, it wasn’t his fault the gravity failed. But our talk of my parents has left me feeling as though a chasm has opened between me and the rest of the human race. Hanging around Rubio will only remind me of it.
I slip my hand into my pocket and palm my crow, smooth and cool as a river stone. I could listen to my mother’s voice. My palms itch at the thought. If I want to remember more—if I push deeper—will I? Cassia’s right. I see it in the flashes of my mother’s face that surface in my mirror and the way smells spark my memory. I love Soraya and Ava, but what would it be like to know which parts of myself were born into me, and which I pieced together from my friends and teachers? Did my mother’s temper flare like mine? Did she hum to herself when she worked? Were her hands my hands? Were her bones my bones? Did we have secret jokes and stories all our own? And if I go looking, can I bring them to life again?
I climb into the Mendicant’s cockpit, curl up in the pilot’s seat, and flip open my crow. I thumb through to the recording Ava sent me and sit staring at it for a full minute, the screen pulsing where I should touch play. When I was little, Ava used to try to talk to me about the parts of my past she knew. Do you remember Ms. Miko and the squid? What about your kite, the red one? You and Kai would take it flying. And then, I heard on the news people are coming back to the Gyre. Maybe we could go visit. Don’t you want to see the place you came from?
I didn’t want to know then. I didn’t want to remember. I wanted a fresh, clean start, full of bright, soft clothes like the ones Soraya wore. I wanted trigonometry and calculus to fill the vacant rooms in my head and dampen my memories. I wanted the comfort of order.
But now? My thumb hovers over the screen. I wish Ava was here. I wish I could call her and ask her to tell me everything she remembers. It would be safer that way, easier than having to do the remembering myself. She could catch me if I fell in too deep and the memories started pulling me down. She could distract me with funny stories about her customers or Rushil’s pickling experiments. But Ava’s not here. She’s millions of miles away in the Mumbai sunshine.
I let my thumb fall, and Ava’s face fills the screen, smiling softly. “Hey, Miyole . . .”
I listen, trying to breathe evenly, until my mother’s voice starts amid the static rain.
Vector five, verified . . .
My throat constricts. It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s not really her. It’s only sound waves. But the trembling starts in my stomach nonetheless, as if some geological force were rocking my whole being. The wave is coming, breaking up the frozen sea. I dig my nails into my palm and hold on.
Suddenly, my mother is singing—softly, to herself. A jolt of recognition runs through me.
Dodo ti ti-tit manman
Si li pa dodo
Krab la va manjé.
Papa li pa la
L’ale la rivyè . . .
The lullaby fades, almost lost in the background roar, and then returns. I couldn’t have sung the words moments before, but some part of me remembers the cadence. I know when her voice will rise and when it will linger on a note. My eyes prickle and burn, and I let them. Another piece of memory surfaces. My mother—my manman—pinching my toes playfully when she got to the part in the song about the crab. Go to sleep, ma chère, or Mr. Crab will get you.
And suddenly, like an aftershock, my mother’s smell comes back to me. It floods up around me as I strain to separate her voice from the static—the tang of sea salt, sweat, and grease from her little ship’s hydraulics, mixed with the soft, full comfort of cooking spices and the oil she used in her hair. I grab on to it, tight as I can, even though I might as well be clinging to barbed wire. It’s too much. Too much. My lungs constrict. I stop the recording.
I lean forward, limp and speckled in sweat, despite the cold.
“You okay, memsahib?”
I snap my head up. Rubio stands balanced uncertainly on the top rung of the ladder, eyeing me like I’m an injured bird.
“I’m fine.” I swipe at the moisture gathered on my cheeks and forehead and dry my hands on my parka. I eye him in return. “How long have you been standing there?”
He shrugs. Long enough. “What was that you were listening to? Was it another ship?” He glances at the coms readout, which sits silent and blank among the other controls.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you think?”
He looks at me evenly, not a trace of mockery in his voice. “Was that your mother?”
“What?”
“Your mother.” His eyes dart around the cockpit, looking for anyplace to land except on me. “I thought . . . she was singing a lullaby, so . . .”
We stare at each other. Seconds move like glaciers.
Rubio clears his throat and lowers his voice. “So, is she?”
I open my mouth to snap something at him, but at that moment, all the fight drains out of me. He’s being sincere for once. “Yes. She is.” I look out at the star-stippled darkness on the other side of the viewport. “Or she was.”
“She’s dead?” Rubio asks.
I nod.
“I’m sorry.” Rubio pushes himself up the last rung and slides into the copilot’s seat.
I shrug. “I don’t remember her much.”
“You were pretty little when she died, huh?” Rubio says.
“I was eight,” I say.
“Was she sick?” he asks.
I shake my head. “You remember that freak storm that hit the Pacific Gyre all those years ago?�
��
Rubio nods. “That was a monster.”
I nod along with him. “That’s where we lived.”
Rubio’s eyes go wide. “You survived that?”
“I did,” I say. “My mother didn’t.”
“Vaya,” he says. “I’m sorry, memsahib. I never knew. . . .”
I sigh. “Well, now that you do, maybe you could quit it with the whole memsahib bhankas.”
“You really don’t like it?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
I raise both eyebrows. “Um, no. Haven’t I said that a million times?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Rubio frowns. “I thought we were just, you know . . .”
I cock my head to the side, waiting.
“Playing,” he finishes.
I stare at him. Even if I live to be five hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever understand what makes boys run the way they do. They are unfathomable creatures.
Suddenly Rubio’s face shifts from earnest to puzzled. “Wait, you said you were eight when the storm hit the Gyre.”
“That’s right,” I say cautiously. What is he on about?
“But that was . . .” He pauses, thinking. “Eight years ago. That would make you sixteen.”
My mouth goes dry. Stupid, stupid. This is exactly why I stayed away from other people aboard the Ranganathan, so I wouldn’t slip up like this.
Rubio must see the look on my face, because his eyes widen. “You are sixteen, aren’t you?” He pushes back his hair. “Chingame.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say quickly. “I did my job well, didn’t I? I had all the qualifications except the age thing.”
“No, it’s not that.” Rubio drops his head into a shake. “It’s only . . . it explains a lot.” He looks up at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“Well, you’re so touchy all the time. You can’t take a joke. And this whole crazy kidnapping, ship-jacking thing . . .” Rubio stops. He looks as if he’s realized he just stepped on a land mine.
I raise a single eyebrow. “You think it was crazy to help Cassia?”
“No. It took balls, is all.” Rubio leans forward on his knees and folds his hands together. “I guess I might have done the same a few years ago, but I never would have done it now.”
I cock my head to the side. “Why?”
“I guess . . .” He sighs and raises his eyes to the ceiling. “You start seeing so much wrong everywhere you go, and you know you can’t fix all of it, so you start to think you can’t fix any of it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if I get that.”
Rubio wears a sad smile I’ve never seen on him before. He lays a hand awkwardly on my arm. “That’s probably a good thing.”
I give him a crooked grin. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me. You’re supposed to be my nemesis, remember?”
“Right.” He straightens up. “We now return to our regularly scheduled banter.”
I roll my eyes. “I take it that means you’re going back to being annoying now?”
But Rubio doesn’t answer. His eyes stay fixed on a spot above my left shoulder.
I turn. Nothing there. At least, nothing besides a wall panel and an ancient foam-spray fire extinguisher with a rusted nozzle.
“Rubio?” I say cautiously, and when he doesn’t answer, I snap my fingers beneath his nose. “Hey!”
He blinks out of his trance. “What? Yeah?”
I wrinkle my brow. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. No, everything’s fine.” He nods, maybe a little too vigorously. “I just thought I . . . It was nothing. Never mind.”
“You’re sure?” I frown.
“Yup. Nothing to worry about. I got lost in thought for a second there.” He stands and squares his shoulders. “I’d better go finish strapping down those cryatine barrels. Don’t want to go through that if we lose gravity again.”
“I thought you had that sorted,” I say.
Rubio pauses in the doorway. “Yeah, but with this raggedy-ass heap? No telling what’s about to happen.”
Chapter 13
The next night, I wake to a crash. I sit bolt upright beside Cassia.
She moans and covers her eyes with both palms. “Miyole?” She’s been up half the night vomiting into the chemical toilet across the hall. This does not bode well for her whole head injury thing.
“I’m here.” I squeeze her elbow and scan the room. Tibbet blinks at me sleepily from the foot of the bed. Rubio’s bunk is empty. “Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
My own head throbs as I pull on my boots and creep down the dim, narrow corridor, past the common room, and up the stairs to the cockpit. Rubio stands in the doorway, his eyes and hair wild. Every one of the access panels in the cockpit hangs open, exposing circuit boards and arrays of microscopic processing chips. Loose wires dangle from the panel in front of him.
“Rubio, what the hell—”
“They’re in the walls, Miyole.” His stare goes straight through me. “They’re in the walls.”
“What are?”
“The birds,” he says, as if this should be obvious, and rips out a fistful of fiberoptic cables. “That cat is good for nothing.”
Vaat.
“Rubio.” I take a cautious step toward him.
“We have to find out how they’re getting in,” Rubio mutters, tugging on a second bundle of wires. “They’ll build nests. They’ll build nests and ruin all our hard work.”
“Rubio.” What happened to the calm, big-brotherly Rubio from yesterday? I edge closer and hold out a hand. “Let’s talk about this.”
“There’s no time!” He whirls on me, wild-eyed. “We have to plug up the holes.”
It takes every bit of my willpower not to flinch, but I don’t. “Okay,” I say calmly. “I understand. But you don’t want to wake Cassia, do you?”
“Cassia?” He stares off into the middle distance for a moment, confused, and then he’s back. “No, I don’t. Her head . . . she needs rest.”
“Good,” I say, and gently take his elbow. “Let’s go down to the common room and pull up some schematics. I bet we can figure out how they’re getting in, and then we can fix it together.” And I can figure out what the hell is wrong with you.
“Right.” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly calmer. “We make a good team. You can help me get rid of them.”
I could almost laugh, except that Cassia’s already sick. I don’t need Rubio out of commission, too. I lead him to the common room, deposit him on one of the couches, and unfold a smartscreen on the low, round table before him. I call up the ship’s schematics.
“Start looking,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.
“To check on Cassia,” I say. “You get started without me.”
He stares at me for a moment, as if he thinks I might betray him to the birds.
“It’ll only take a minute.” I force a smile. “And then we can take care of your bird problem.”
“Our bird problem,” he corrects.
“Right,” I agree.
Rubio nods, satisfied, and hunches over the schematics.
I hurry from the room, up to the sleeping quarters, and kneel beside my bunk, rifling through my med kit.
“Miyole?” Cassia sits up in bed, hair mussed. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
Cassia drops back against the pillows. I find what I need and palm it, then stand and walk back to the common room. Kilograms of weight times dosage per kilogram equals desired dosage.
I find Rubio watching the door when I enter.
“Is she okay?” he asks.
I nod. “She’s fine. Sleeping.” I drop down next to him. “So, what do we have?”
Rubio leans forward over the plan. “Possible entry points here and here.” He taps his finger on an air-cycling vent and then moves it over to what I think is probably th
e ship’s waste conversion system.
“How do you think they’re getting in?” I move closer, assessing Rubio’s body for the best access point. His neck, I decide. Some nice veins there. Besides, the rest of him is covered up by a parka and thermal jumpsuit.
Rubio looks at me as if I’ve asked what the weather’s like out in space. “I don’t think they’re getting in,” he says. “They probably roosted in here while this junker was in dock, and now we’re disturbing them.”
I frown. This is a far saner explanation than I was expecting. “Are you sure it’s not the rats you’re hearing?” There are definitely rats aboard. I woke a few nights earlier to find Tibbet purring proudly beside me and another dead rat deposited on the blanket over my chest.
“Yes.” Rubio draws out the word in exasperation. “Have you ever heard a rat sing like that?” He cocks his head and points up, listening.
I pause and hold my breath, straining to hear what Rubio does. Far away inside the ship, something gurgles, but otherwise, a complete, humming silence reigns over us.
“Okay,” I say. “Medicine time.” In one swift movement, I jab the tiny syringe hidden in my palm into his neck and depress the injector.
“What—” Rubio’s eyes go wide and he flails, trying to bat me away.
Three, two, one, I count to myself, and Rubio goes limp. He slumps back against the couch, his eyes still wide and hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “You’re hallucinating.”
Rubio slumps down farther on the couch. His eyelids droop.
“Might as well get comfortable.” I pat his leg and stand.
I position Rubio so he lies flat on his back across the couch. Then I find several pillows and prop up his head, careful to turn his chin to the side so he won’t aspirate his own vomit if the sedative doesn’t sit well with him. Last, I carry down an armload of thermal blankets from the bunks and layer them over him. His fingers are already ice-cold from the drop in his blood pressure. I tuck the blankets tight around him.
“I hear them,” he says plaintively, almost in a whisper.
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