The Peyti grabbed her leg. She looked down at the thin gray fingers wrapped around her pants.
“Please,” it said.
She reached down, and helped it up. Its other arm dangled at its side, clearly broken. She’d always thought the twig-like Peyti looked fragile. Now she knew that they were.
“Thank you,” it said.
“There’s something in the air,” she said because she knew the Peyti, with its mask, couldn’t smell what had gone wrong. “Something bad.”
The Peyti nodded and surveyed the area around them. Other survivors were moving, shuffling toward the side of the car.
The Peyti said something in its native language and looked back at her.
“What?” she asked.
It shook its head, a movement that looked very unnatural. It clearly worked among humans and had learned their movements.
“The dome sectioned,” it said.
She frowned. “How do you know that?”
“Do not look north,” it said.
She didn’t even know where north was. She was completely disoriented.
“Oh, my God.” The big guy was standing on the seat back beside her. “We got cut in half.”
Berhane didn’t understand him at first. She was fine. Except for broken bones and bleeding, everyone else seemed fine too. She glanced at the big man, then started to turn toward the direction he was looking in, but the Peyti grabbed her arm.
“Do not look,” it said. “The dome bisected the train.”
Her breath caught. “It can’t do that.”
“Not under regular circumstances, no,” the Peyti said. “The trains must stop when the dome sections, but clearly this is not a regular circumstance.”
The dome only dropped its sections when the mayor ordered the dome to get segmented off. He had done so during the crisis surrounding the Moon marathon. He had sectioned off one part of the dome, so the disease running through the marathon didn’t infect the rest of the city.
But that was the only time in her memory that the dome had sectioned.
And that sectioning had been ordered. Trains had stopped in time. Cars hadn’t been able to get through the area. People had been instructed to move away from the section before it came down.
Not this time.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“Something bad,” the Peyti said.
The something bad had happened in the forward compartments.
Then Berhane realized she was turned around. The sectioning had occurred behind her.
Where her mother had been.
“No,” Berhane said.
She scrambled past the people still picking themselves up, and climbed toward the door. It was half open, something that shouldn’t have happened either, or maybe that was a fail-safe when the train derailed (only it wasn’t supposed to derail).
Somehow she pried the doors open and squeezed through.
The air was thick with the smell of burnt rubber and fried circuits. Her eyes watered.
She could see the dome behind her, set against the famed university shopping district, but it looked wrong.
Black. Rubble. Smoke, billowing everywhere. Some of it near the sectioned dome, but most of it behind the protective barrier.
She climbed on top of the car. The train was twisted too. Cut in half. Sort of. Because in the back, past the section, she couldn’t see a train at all.
She couldn’t see anything she recognized.
“Mother,” she whispered. And then she shouted, “Mother!”
Her mother never shouted back.
ANNIVERSARY DAY
TWO
BERHANE TOSSED HER engagement ring at Torkild Zhu’s retreating back. The ring missed by a good five meters, and bounced on the blue carpet of Terminal 20’s luxury departure lounge.
Three employees of the Port of Armstrong stared at her as if she were the crazy one. A little girl ran toward the ring, glinting on the carpet, and her father caught her arm. A Peyti watched, eyes glittering above its mask.
But Torkild didn’t turn around. Of course not, the bastard. He probably didn’t even know she had thrown the ring at him.
She wiped the back of her hand over her wet cheeks, then blinked, afraid the tears would start again. She doubled over, her face warm. It felt swollen, and her eyes ached.
Damn him. Damn him all to hell.
It was just like Torkild to pick the departure lounge of Armstrong’s port as the site of their break-up. He couldn’t have done it in the car when she brought him here, or in her apartment.
Or in bed—
Good God, the bastard had made love to her—screwed her—just that morning, even though he had known what he was going to do. But he hadn’t told her he loved her. He hadn’t said that at all, even though she had pressed herself against him and declared her love for him loudly, so that he couldn’t ignore her.
At least, in that moment, he had had the decency to look away.
Bastard. Bastardbastardbastard bastard.
Somehow her cheeks were wet again, but she wasn’t sure if the tears were anger or frustration or humiliation or actual grief.
No, she knew they weren’t actual grief. She’d felt grief before. She knew grief, and it hadn’t felt like this.
Someone tugged on her arm.
Berhane looked down. The little girl, advertising-cute with her black pigtails, coffee-dark skin, and button black eyes, held the ring in her thumb and forefinger.
“’Spretty,” the little girl said, slurring the words together. “Daddy says ’spensive too. Shouldn’t throw it.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
The little girl’s father was standing just to the side. He gave Berhane an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, as if he couldn’t control his daughter.
He probably couldn’t.
What father could?
“Thank you.” Berhane took the ring gently from the child, biting back all of the nasty words she would have said if Torkild were still standing there.
It’s not expensive, she would have said. It’s a cheap ring from a true asshole, and he knew it even when he gave it to me.
Back then, she hadn’t cared. Not even when he apologized as he gave her the ring.
I know you can probably afford to buy a million of these, he had said earnestly, but this is what I can get us on a student’s budget. I hope you don’t mind.
Mind? she had replied like the lovesick suck-up she was. That makes the ring even more special.
The little girl hadn’t moved. She was still looking at the ring, as if she wanted it for herself.
“You okay?” the little girl asked. She was biting her lower lip, and actually seemed concerned as her gaze met Berhane’s.
Berhane wondered what the girl’s father would do if Berhane gave the child the ring. Probably make her give it back. That was what Berhane’s father would have done. But not for the same reason. He would have done it because it was a cheap ring, not worthy of his daughter.
This man would probably give it back because it was the right thing to do.
Still, Berhane was touched that the child asked about her well-being. Berhane gave the girl a watery smile that felt completely insincere.
“Yes, thank you,” Berhane said. “I’m fine.”
The little girl looked at the ring. “You gonna put it on?”
“Not now,” Berhane said, and closed her hand around it. The sharp metal prongs holding the half-carat ruby-like stone in place bit into her palm.
The little girl’s face fell, as if a ring shouldn’t be treated like that. She scurried back to her father.
Berhane raised her head, her gaze meeting his. He was about her age, as dark as his daughter. His daughter had his black eyes. He raised his eyebrows at Berhane, as if questioning—what? That she was all right? That she hadn’t harmed his daughter?
Berhane sighed, then looked at the door leading out of the Terminal. Damn that Torkild. He had deliberately ended t
heir relationship here, so that he wouldn’t have to answer to her.
He was a coward, just like Berhane’s father had said he was.
He’s not worthy of you, my girl, her father had said more than once, and that comment had always made Berhane feel special and pathetic at the same time.
She had felt special because her father had noticed her, and pathetic because she needed him to notice her. And pathetic too because he had criticized her boyfriend, and in doing so, had criticized her as well.
It irritated her that her father had been right. And her mother had been as well. Neither of them had liked Torkild.
Berhane had always suspected her mother wanted to talk with her about Torkild on the day of the bombing, four years ago now.
Dammit.
The man was no longer looking at her. He had his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. What were they doing there? Seeing someone off, as she had been doing? Because it was too late to get onto the shuttle to Athena Base.
Berhane had no idea why she was so interested in them. Maybe because the girl had brought herself to Berhane’s attention. Or maybe because Berhane couldn’t remember ever standing with her father anywhere, waiting for something, just her and her dad.
Except at her mother’s funeral. Then they had stood side-by-side, greeting the guests, because Berhane’s brother Bertram had been too broken up to talk to anyone. Bert had acted as if he were the only one harmed by their mother’s death, as if he were the only one grieving.
He had barely made it through the funeral before screaming at their father. Somehow, the explosion that had killed her mother, an explosion caused by some terrorists connected with a place that Berhane had never heard of before that awful day, had become their father’s fault, at least in Bert’s eyes. Berhane had never understood the fight.
Their mother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had died for it.
End of story. Sometimes life was like that, much as Berhane hated it.
Much as she grieved over it.
Real grief, not the tears she was shedding for Torkild The Terrible.
She wiped at her eyes.
Bert had taken his inheritance from their mother and fled to the Frontier, after their father had made him sign off on any interest he had in the family business from that moment forward. Berhane had thought the requirement harsh, but her father had said that it would protect her inheritance and Torkild, the bastard, had agreed.
Berhane ran a finger beneath her eyelid. She probably should leave. She had made a scene after all. Her mother would have been appalled.
No, that wasn’t right: her mother would have laughed. Her mother had been the one who hadn’t cared about the opinion of others. Her father cared, mostly because he was afraid that a bad opinion would have a negative effect on business.
Berhane glanced at the door, then looked up at the screen hanging behind one of the sign-in desks. It showed the shuttle to Athena Base waiting for the last of its passengers to get settled.
First class always got to go first, and since Torkild’s law firm paid his way onboard, Torkild always traveled in the most expensive way possible.
He’s only marrying you for your money, my girl, her father had said.
I’m not fond of him, her mother had said after meeting him. Berhane, you can do so much better.
How right her parents were. She could have done a lot better—many times over. She had wasted almost a decade of her life on Torkild, waiting for him, trying to set a date, even volunteering to move to Athena Base so that she could live near his work instead of so very far away.
I need an excuse to come back to my home, Berhane. I will come to see you, Torkild had said after he got hired by Schnable, Shishani, & Salehi, the best defense firm in the human part of the Alliance. The hiring had been—in his words—a dream come true. And he wanted to establish himself there before bringing her to that far region of space.
The idea that she was “an excuse” to come home had bothered her, but she had let it slide. She had known what he meant.
Or she’d thought she had.
He would bring her to Athena Base as soon as he felt secure in the law firm. Only, after he had become a junior partner in the firm, he still had excuses.
He doesn’t love you, B, Bert had said on one of their infrequent talks over very distant links. I have no idea what his game is, but he doesn’t love anyone. Not even himself.
She might have believed that—okay, she had believed that (a little) when she was getting her second doctorate. Torkild needed her father’s name and his corporate backing, just as clout, to help him with his job at S3. But after he became a partner? He didn’t need her or her clout or her family’s name.
Not that the Magalhães name meant much outside of Earth’s solar system. She had tried to explain that to Bert too, but he hadn’t listened.
Everyone’s heard of us, he said bitterly in one of their conversations. Even way out here, I can’t escape Dad’s reputation.
Bert wanted to escape their father. Berhane did not. She even hated leaving Armstrong. She couldn’t imagine living off-Moon.
She was still staring at that stupid shuttle. What had she been thinking? She was holding things up as much as Torkild was. She didn’t want to leave the Moon, and he didn’t have a future here.
Maybe he was just being realistic when he broke up with her.
Or maybe he was just being a bastard.
She almost chucked the damn ring at the door again. It took all of her strength to keep from flinging that flimsy token of an even flimsier love at the stupid blue carpet.
Instead, she looked at the ring in her palm, saw the indentations it made against her skin, then noted that she had similar marks on her left ring finger. It would take a long time before evidence of that stupid ring would wear off.
She balanced the ring on her palm. She had no idea what she would do with that ring. Torkild had been right: she could buy a million of these things with her monthly allowance, not even touching the principal of her inheritance from her mother, not to mention the money she got from her father every month.
The ring was just a symbol of her stupidity.
She closed her fist around it again, then walked over to the man and his daughter. He looked at her in surprise.
The little girl looked at Berhane’s hand, as if searching for the ring.
Berhane opened her fist quickly, above the girl’s head, and showed the man the ring.
“You saw what happened,” she said softly to him. “I don’t want this. Someone else is intrigued with it.”
And she pointedly looked down at the top of the little girl’s head.
“It’s too expensive,” the man said.
Berhane smiled bitterly. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
He frowned. “Should I?”
“I’m Berhane Magalhães, Bernard Magalhães’s daughter. I thought I was marrying for love, not for money, which is why I ended up with this ring.” She paused, and the man held up his hand.
“This isn’t about me,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I’m telling you who I am so that you’ll know this ring is—”
To tell him that the ring was cheap in her estimation was elitist, and she only realized it when the sentence was halfway out of her mouth.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I’m not going to keep this. I could sell it, but that seems silly. I’d rather give it to someone who’ll find it special.”
His gaze stayed on hers. Then he let out a small laugh.
“You realize that some psychiatrist would say that, because you couldn’t give the ring back to your fiancé, you’re looking for a substitute to give the ring to.”
She let out a small laugh too. She couldn’t help herself.
“That psychiatrist would probably be right,” she said, shaking her head at herself. She hadn’t even realized it until this nice man pointed out what she was doing.
But sh
e couldn’t go back on it now.
And she didn’t want to.
“I doubt,” she said, “that someone under the age of five qualifies as that substitute.”
The man gave her a sideways you’re-not-fooling-me glance. His daughter was looking up as if she could see what was on Berhane’s palm. At the mention of age, the girl’s eyes lit up.
“Now you’ve done it,” the man said lightly.
Berhane nodded. “Not as cagey as I thought, I guess.”
The man sighed, and scanned his daughter. She was shifting on her small feet, looking hopeful, glancing between her father and Berhane’s outstretched palm.
It was hard to miss how interested she was.
He sighed, then said, “I want to record you offering it to my daughter. Before you do, you have to tell her—and me—that you’re doing it because you want to.”
Berhane appreciated his caution. The last thing he needed was a jilted fiancée changing her mind about the token of that (horrible) affection. Not to mention deciding that this random man and his daughter, here in the Terminal, could be accused of stealing the ring.
“No problem,” Berhane said. “I’m happy to do it. Are you ready to record?”
He blinked, and the pupil of his right eye glowed for a second.
“Yes,” he said.
“Okay,” Berhane said. “I’m Berhane Magalhães. I am giving this ring of my own free will to….?”
She looked at the man. He said, “Fiona Ó Brádaigh.”
“To Fiona Ó Brádaigh,” Berhane said, then she crouched. The little girl—Fiona—was bouncing on her toes with excitement. “And I hope you’ll love and enjoy it for the rest of your very long life.”
The little girl took the ring as if it were the most precious thing she’d ever seen. She tried to slip it on her finger, but it was several sizes too big. She could fit two of her fingers into the ring.
Berhane reached around her neck and removed her necklace. It was just a chain with a charm at the bottom of it, something whimsical she had bought a few weeks ago on break from one of her classes.
She pulled the charm off, pocketed it, and then extended her hand.
“Let me,” she said to the little girl.
Search & Recovery: A Retrieval Artist Universe Novel Page 2
