Again, the thread of power connecting me to Peter’s power crystal cuts off, and again, the images end along with it.
The memories were a little longer this time, and in focus, which is a plus. But they were both from after Mendel actually lost his memories.
When he opens his eyes, he looks even more annoyed than before. “How the hell do either of those things that I still remember answer how I lost my memories?”
I throw my hands up in the air. “I don’t know, Mendel, okay? Maybe the power crystal is malfunctioning. Maybe one of us did something wrong. We’ll just try it again.”
So we do. We try again and again and again, but every time, we either draw out memories Mendel still possesses, or else scraps of memories even shorter and more indistinct than our first attempt. They’re so blurred as to be useless, and sometimes there isn’t even sound to them.
Mendel is the one who finally says, “Stop—just stop, okay? This isn’t working. It’s just getting worse the more we try.”
“This shouldn’t be happening.” I glare at the crystal, as if that’ll get it to clean up its act. “My friend’s never mentioned anything like this before.”
“Maybe you just can’t control it,” Mendel says. Surprisingly, the irritation has left his voice as he switches over to going at this more logically. “Not all gifts are easily used, right? Have you ever tried using this one before?”
I hesitate, not wanting to admit that he may have figured out the problem before I did. “No. I haven’t.”
“Then it’s probably that. You just can’t use the gift right, so we’re getting these crappy results.”
He waits for me to reply, and I know what I should say. I should suggest I bring my friend to meet Mendel in person so that the Nyte himself can try accessing his memories. But I don’t trust Mendel. He might be working with the team now because he wants my help, but that doesn’t mean I want to get Peter involved with him. Especially not now that Mendel obviously has some sort of past ties with the rebels. Besides, this isn’t something I can just volunteer Peter for without even asking him first. I’m not that bad of a friend.
“Well?” Mendel asks when I don’t say anything.
I sigh. “I’ll try seeing what I can find out. I’ll talk to my friend, too. Just give me a little time to figure things out.”
“And I should just trust that you’re going to follow through on that?” Mendel asks. He crosses his arms. “I should just trust that you’re actually going to try doing something else now that your first plan has fallen through?”
“Well, yes.”
“No offense, but I don’t have any reason to trust you.”
“Nor I you.”
He blinks in surprise, then catches himself and smiles ruefully. Being able to read his mind, I know him better than anyone here. I know what a liar he is. How he’ll do or say most anything to get what he wants. And he’s fully aware of that.
“Look,” I say, “I know this isn’t ideal. But I’m not about to sign my friend up for something he isn’t even involved in. I don’t want to make him feel pressured to help for something that I started, either.”
His face remains neutral, but internally, he’s surprised by the amount of consideration I’m giving my friend. Somehow, he hadn’t expected it. Without consciously thinking about it, he’d thought I was like him—alone, and willing to use what I can to get what I want. When he realizes he was wrong, he doesn’t know how to feel about it. It throws me off guard, too.
“I’m going to see what other options we have, and talk to my friend in the meantime,” I go on. “Maybe he’ll know what happened with his power crystal. Maybe he can tell me how to use it properly. But I need you to give me some time to work all that out. Please.”
He takes so long to answer I think he’s going to say no. But he says, “Fine. Just don’t keep me waiting too long. If you do, who knows if I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut with all these secrets of yours.”
“If you do, I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut about the fact that you’re missing your memories and you think you might have been associated with the rebels,” I say. “Or about that anti-Nyte bar you go to to meet your information brokers, and how for months you’ve watched fellow Nytes get beaten up without lifting a finger to help them.” His eyes meet mine, defiant, neither of us giving way. “You may know my secrets, Mendel, but don’t forget that I know yours, too.”
He glares at me but says nothing.
I turn on my heel and head for the door. But for some reason, I find myself pausing with my hand on the doorknob. This isn’t how I want to leave things. I turn around to face Mendel head-on when I say, “I am trying, Mendel.”
He looks at me with something almost like regret. I really wish I could believe that.
18
JAY
THE FAILURE OF our last mission weighs heavy on my mind over the following weeks. Perhaps it was unavoidable given that it was an ambush, but I’m unable to stop thinking about what I could have done to turn it into a success. I pore over the reports on the rebels’ movements in the area and pinpoint all the flaws in my last plan before going to train. I need to become better.
Once I’ve finished in the range, I head to the mess hall for lunch and happen upon Cathwell and Johann. They’re sitting across from each other at one of the many long tables placed end-to-end together to form neat rows down the room. Both of their presences radiate a brilliant, happy yellow hue.
They’re having a strange argument about drinks when I seat myself next to Cathwell.
“That stuff is going to be the death of you one day,” Cathwell says as she indicates the soda placed before Johann. Her left hand taps a furious, inconsistent rhythm atop the table.
“Better than drinking milk straight,” Johann says with a wrinkled nose. His tray is piled high with food, most of it meat. He wolfs it down between words. “I don’t know how you can stomach that poison.”
“I don’t know how you can go through life not being able to appreciate the glorious state of being that is milk.” Cathwell jabs her fork in Johann’s direction to emphasize her point, and a piece of fruit flies off the tip. She continues quite gravely. “This is why we can never truly be friends, Al. We shall always border the edge that separates the milk drinkers from the milk haters.”
“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” I ask. It’s entertaining simply to watch them while I eat, but I want to be a part of their conversation as well. Ever since Cathwell and Johann began training together almost two weeks ago, they’ve been getting along famously. Johann was the last person I expected to get along with the lieutenant, considering his impatience and initial loathing of her being placed on the team, but I can’t locate any trace of that now. It’s a bit lonely. The fact that they room together and refer to each other on a first-name basis only makes the feeling worse.
“It’s not harsh,” Cathwell says. “Milk is delicious. Al is crazy.”
“You’re the one who’s a weirdo,” Johann says. “That alone means I win.”
“Hey now. This and that have nothing to do with each other.” Cathwell waves her hand ambiguously.
“How did you two even get on this subject?” I ask.
“I asked Lai what her favorite food was,” Johann says. “Apparently what one of us loves, the other hates. We were just seeing if it was the same with drinks when you came.”
“So far, the answer is yes,” Cathwell says.
“Only because someone doesn’t like soda.”
“Soda kills you.”
Their intimacy makes my chest tighten. It takes an extended period of time for me to recognize the feeling as jealousy, and then yet another to realize why it’s plaguing me. All the years I was at Eastern, and all the years I spent at home prior to that, I never had any friends. Work was continuously my highest priority. First, trying to meet my father’s expectations, immersing myself in my studies as heir to the company, doing everything to a T. When I ente
red the military, it was hardly any different. Executing a mission perfectly, filling out reports over and over until I was satisfied with them. Even disregarding the fact that the majority of soldiers are Etioles who likely wouldn’t take well to me trying to talk to them, I never even attempted to. Seeing Johann and Cathwell get along so well, I’m envious of something I’ve never had.
Cathwell is watching me. I hope she didn’t ask me something when I wasn’t paying attention, but Johann is eating without a care, so I suppose not. I clear my throat. “So is there anything you two both like?”
“Bread,” Cathwell says. She holds out her pinkie to count, considers, and frowns. “Yeah. Bread.”
“That’s it?” I barely suppress a laugh, but it’s mostly at the expressions they’re both wearing.
“Well, Al doesn’t like sweet breads,” Cathwell says. “So cinnamon rolls and glazed bread are out. Which is sad, because those are the best.”
“You just have too much of a sweet tooth for your own good,” Johann says. “Which is why I find it odd that you don’t like soda.”
Cathwell shrugs. “Sugar fuels the brain, but acid kills the body.”
Johann shakes his head. He tosses the last of his food in his mouth and stands. “I’m going to go pick up a few things in town before I have to start guard duty. Anything you guys want?”
“I’m good,” Cathwell says. “Thanks.”
Johann turns his attention to me, but I say, “That’s okay, but thank you for the offer.”
He snorts. “You don’t have to be so formal all the time, you know.”
“Yeah yeah,” Cathwell chips in eagerly. A bit too eagerly. “You can call us by our first names, too.”
Johann lifts an eyebrow at that, but merely says, “Yeah, why not? We’re all teammates. Honestly, we really should be using each other’s first names by now.”
Cathwell beams at him, then at me. “See? If even Al says so, then it’s fine.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“I’ve never actually called anyone by their first name before,” I say.
“Never?” Johann asks incredulously. His and Cathwell’s looks of surprise are so prominent I wish I hadn’t said anything. “Come on. What about siblings?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Childhood friends?”
“None.”
“Okay, then you definitely have to start calling us by our first names,” he says. “I won’t answer you until you do.”
“Me too,” Cathwell says.
“Why?” I can’t understand why they’re making such a big deal out of this.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Johann asks. “It means you’re close to someone if you call them by their first name. It’s like you don’t consider us friends. You’re the one who wanted the team to work well together, right? We’ll work together better if it’s our friends we’re looking out for in battle instead of just some people we’re assigned to work with.”
I’m not quite certain what names have to do with that, but I don’t dissent.
Johann shakes his head, checks the time on his MMA, and says, “Sorry, I have to go. See you guys later.”
“Bye, Al,” Cathwell says. She gives me a pointed look.
“Oh, uh, talk to you later,” I say. When they both continue to stare at me, I awkwardly add, “Al.”
Johann nods and appears satisfied. Once he’s gone, it’s just me and Cathwell.
I’m not certain what I should say to her. Following our last mission’s report-writing session, our meetings have been sparse. Our shifts are continuously opposite, and lacking any new missions from the Council, we haven’t had any need to seek each other out regardless. I wish I had a reason to approach her occasionally, though.
I look up from eating to see Cathwell watching me with that same expression from earlier. She hastily looks away when our eyes meet and thrusts a forkful of chicken in her mouth. She swallows it so fast she begins coughing and I have to hold back a laugh. There’s something funny about Cathwell being the one to act awkwardly for once.
“I nearly died over here and you’re laughing?” Cathwell asks once her throat’s cleared. “Some friend you are.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry.”
That appears to have been the wrong thing to say. Her expression drops. “I was just joking. You know we’re friends, right? You don’t have to be so serious and polite about everything. And if you ever want to talk, you don’t need a reason to do it. You can just come find me.”
“Now who’s being all serious?” I attempt to say it lightly to divert attention away from this topic, partly because it suddenly did become serious, partly to deflect from how spot-on her words are.
Perhaps I really am too easy to read. I don’t want her to be kind to me merely because she noticed my negative feelings. How pathetic.
Her lips tighten. Her focus appears to be elsewhere as she takes another bite of food, then another. Irritation flicks over her face one heartbeat, quickly followed by triumph, followed up once more by irritation and a roll of the eyes. Her presence keeps consistent beat with her change of emotions. I wonder what’s going through her mind right now.
Finally, she turns back to me. “Are you busy tonight?”
The question takes me off guard enough that I answer without thinking. “No.”
“Good. Come out with me.”
“Um, okay. Where to?”
“Secret.”
“Uh.”
Her voice drops so only I can hear. Not that there’s anyone else around us regardless. “We’re going to be out past curfew.”
“What?” I say, perhaps too loudly, because she gives me a disapproving look.
“It’s not going to be very secret if you start shouting about it.”
I lower my voice to match hers. “That’s breaking the rules. Why don’t we just go to this place well before curfew?”
“Because we can’t. It’s after curfew or not at all.”
I shake my head. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just told you, it’s against the rules.”
“So?”
“So? We could face severe punishment—or worse, we could be suspected as rebel spies.”
“So then we won’t get caught.”
“You—”
“Do you trust me?”
“Whether I trust you and whether I’m going to sneak out is—”
“Do you trust me?” she asks once more, and this time, I catch the weighted undertone. Her eyes are suddenly serious, all her typical playfulness gone. Her presence on my internal grid beats a slow, stable orange. Expectant. Waiting.
I hesitate. There are a multitude of things I could say in response, and a number more I want to ask, but I don’t give voice to any of them. I realize all at once that the destination isn’t necessarily important in why she’s asking me to accompany her.
I consider her question seriously. I think about how she’s saved me twice on the battlefield now, how capably she handles herself. I think of the things she told me and the things I told her in that cave-in, things she’d likely never told anyone before, things I’d definitely never told anyone before. I think of how she stayed with me to help finish the reports when the others had left.
Our eyes meet. “I trust you,” I say.
“Then meet me outside the used bookstore a couple blocks south at ten.” I’m unable to read her expression as she stands with her tray and smiles a small, private smile. “See you then, Jay.”
* * *
I know I told Cathwell I trust her—and I do—but trusting her and risking everything I’ve worked for all these years are two incredibly different things.
It’s getting nearer and nearer to ten, and I’ve still yet to decide whether or not I’m going as I take notes on the last scouts’ report in my room. Again. Mendel is gone, likely to the woodshop. He’s perpetually there.
I wish I h
ad my own haunt to escape to; this room feels smaller with each passing day. Mendel’s tottering stacks of furniture don’t help.
I lean back in my chair. For possibly the first time since I joined the military four years ago, I feel lonely. And bored. I haven’t felt like this since I was studying under the tutors Father hired to teach me. It’s not a feeling I would have liked to replicate.
What am I doing? I don’t have time to be bored. I don’t even have a reason to be. I’ve always done my work without a sense of it being tedious. There’s nothing I would even rather do. I don’t keep up hobbies. Whenever I have spare time, I spend it training or reading up on military tactics. Whatever is necessary to ensure I can execute my job without error.
So why do I feel as if there’s a gaping hole in my chest?
My MMA beeps. 9:30. I stare at the time as though it will give me an answer. 9:31. I can’t go. It’s far too risky. 9:32. What will Cathwell think of me when I don’t show up? She asked me to trust her. 9:33. She’ll understand if I don’t come. If we truly are friends as she said, then she won’t hold this against me. 9:34. What comes next if I don’t go?
The sudden thought makes me panic. I imagine sitting here for the remainder of the night, alone, senselessly checking through this report once more. Tomorrow, facing Cathwell, whatever her reaction might be.
And then I look behind me. All the weeks dragging into months straining into years. What have I actually accomplished since I entered the military? I left because I wanted to be happy. Can I honestly say that’s what I am now? It’s all too easy to imagine my future in the upcoming years. Ever the same. Stagnant.
9:40.
I stand up.
Agitation scorches under my skin, but I manage to keep my pace to a walk as I go through Central, out the front doors, and into the streets. And then I run.
I don’t need to. I’m right on time. Cathwell will think I’m strange if she sees me like this. But still, I run all the way to the front doorstep of the bookstore we’re meeting at.
A Soldier and a Liar Page 16
