I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself awake, fighting the urge to lean my head on hers, and settle in to wait for dawn.
“So then you made your way across the plains toward the mountains?”
“That’s correct.”
“What were your thoughts at that stage?”
“It was clear we were unlikely to find other survivors, but I remained alert. I didn’t expect them to be kindly disposed toward a LaRoux, if they were around.”
“Why was that?”
“Her father built the ship we’d been on. Terraforming companies are rarely popular with the colonists, and you know as well as I do that Central sends in the troops to back up the corporations’ rights. Colonists hate us, too.”
“Did you have any other thoughts?”
“I was beginning to wonder why we weren’t seeing rescue flyovers.”
“Did you mention that to Miss LaRoux?”
“No.”
FOURTEEN
LILAC
“TELL ME AGAIN WHAT YOU HEARD,” he asks for the eighteenth time after we complete another of his ever-expanding search perimeters around our campsite. In the light of morning, it’s hard to keep insisting that what happened was real.
“It was a woman crying. She sounded desperate, afraid, maybe hurt, I’m not sure. She sounded—” But I cut myself off, pressing my lips together.
“She sounded?” he prompts, leaning back against a tree.
“She sounded like me,” I finish, realizing how the words sound—even worse than I’d expected.
He’s silent for a while, scanning the forest. “Right,” he says after a few moments, pushing off from the tree and leaning down to retrieve his pack. “If there was someone here last night—”
He pauses a moment, as if expecting me to say something. I want to interrupt, insist I heard what I heard, but something keeps me quiet. I’ve lost the right, if I ever had it, to protest his declarations. I’d die out here if it weren’t for him.
When I remain silent, he continues. “At any rate, she’s gone now. We need to keep moving. How are your feet?”
Maybe I did invent her. The admission, even to myself, causes an uneasy tension to settle throughout my shoulders. But I have no choice. If he’s decided it’s time to move on, then I have to move on with him. The worst part is that I have to admit that he’s right. There’s no sign of anyone here, no trampled earth, not even a snapped twig to show that someone passed by.
“They’re fine,” I mumble, despite the throb from the matching blisters on my heels at the reminder.
“Once we’re out onto the plains, we can find a place to rest, stop a little earlier today. Neither of us is going to have much stamina after such an interrupted night.”
I know he means that I won’t have much stamina. My jaw tightens in protest, and for an instant I want to retort. But then my ears fill with the memory of a cat’s hunting snarl, and I smell the burning fur and the blood and I close my eyes.
The voice was moving toward the plains, which is the direction Tarver proposes to hike in order to reach the wreck. Perhaps if we just start moving, we’ll be able to track down whomever I heard.
“Fine.”
Silence from Tarver, which stretches long enough that I’m forced to open my eyes again. He’s watching me with an odd expression on his face, one I can’t read—his eyes aren’t quite on mine. With a start, I realize I’m still wearing the jacket he wrapped around my shoulders last night.
When I start to scramble out of it, struggling with the way the material swallows up my hands, he’s roused from whatever trance he’d been in. “No,” he says abruptly. “Keep it for now.”
Then he turns his back and moves out, sure in the knowledge that I’ll follow.
What else can I do?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny, unbidden voice whispers, Would you actually want to do anything else?
The pace seems easier today. Perhaps he’s being gentler on me, but I suspect I’m growing accustomed to walking.
We make better time on the flat ground of the plains, pausing only to choke down a ration bar each. I choke, anyway; Tarver tucks in as though it’s a three-course steak dinner.
He calls a halt again after another hour and a half of walking, looking around the plains in each direction. Behind us the forest is a smear of gray-green on a ridge, dropping down into the broad, golden expanse of the plain. I’ve never seen anything so immense as this, such a vast sweep of empty land. The creek we’ve been following fans out into a network of silvery streams, marking the small dips in the land. They’re all narrow enough to jump across, but large enough that Tarver can dip the canteen into them, filling it up and letting the water filter do its work. The wind ripples the grass of the plains in waves, for all the world like the oceans I’ve seen on the HV. On the far side of all this are the mountains that stand between us and the Icarus.
But we don’t see any signs of life. No rescue craft roaring overhead, no colony traffic crisscrossing the sky the way the streams divide the plain. I can’t understand why there aren’t colonies here. Where is everyone? Neither of us says a word about it, but I know it can’t have escaped him.
Tarver makes camp more quickly than he did the night before, and it takes me a few moments to realize why—he hasn’t dug a fire pit this time. No wood on the plains for a real fire. Why hadn’t I thought about that? Until I leaned against him last night, I was halfway to freezing, even with a fire close at hand. And after shoving him away so quickly this morning, I can’t rely on his warmth again. I shiver, my mind on the miserable night ahead.
Tarver gathers up a bundle of the wire he stripped from the escape pod, mumbles something about setting snares for food, and strikes out across the plain in a straight line. At least I can see him here, without the trees of the forest to block my view, and know I’m not completely alone.
I’m watching him and exploring my face with my fingertips, wishing I had a mirror. My skin is warm and flushed despite sitting still; sunburn, something tells me, swimming up from some childhood experience when I got lost on a simulation deck emulating a tropical vacation. Then, my father just summoned a physician, and the burn melted away under her care. Now I trace its damage across my cheeks. The skin around my eye is still painful to the touch, and I imagine that it’s at least a little bruised—it’s had the four days since the crash to bloom. At least Tarver has the decency not to mock me about it.
I hear his voice not far behind me. Didn’t I just see him in the distance, crouching to set a snare? I turn, chest tightening in surprise, only to find an empty plain. How could he have gotten behind me so fast? I squint back over my shoulder and see him straighten up, too far off for me to have heard him speak.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts, and I scan the plains behind me. There’s no sign of anyone, and yet as I stand there, heart pounding and ears straining, I hear another murmur. It isn’t Tarver’s voice after all—it’s not quite as deep. It carries some emotion I can’t identify, and I can’t understand at all what it’s saying.
My body begins to shake, my fingertips tingling and itching, my breath quickening. Fear, I tell myself, but it doesn’t abate even when I force myself to take deep breaths. My skin runs hot and cold and hot again, itching with restlessness until I feel like I must move or explode from the sensation. My head spins as though my blood sugar’s low, as if I’m wearing a too-tight dress, and not enough oxygen is reaching my brain.