“They’ll find us eventually, though, won’t they?”
She swallows. “Yes.”
I want so badly to reach for her, to wrap her hands in mine and thank her for defying her people for me; but I know she wasn’t only doing it for me. She believes in this fight now. She knows as well as I do that saving Avon is more important than her people, or mine. And I know she doesn’t want to be comforted.
So I clear my throat. “Merendsen’s note,” I say, shattering the quiet. “Maybe it has something we can use.”
Jubilee reaches into her pocket to pull out the coded message from Lilac. We lean together to study the folded sheet.
It’s a printed message, with Merendsen’s handwritten translation scrawled between the lines. Lilac is talking about all the things Jubilee seems to associate with her—parties, clothes, vacations—and though some of it’s left alone, Merendsen has translated other parts in hurried handwriting.
Knave got access, it reads. No records of a facility being moved on Avon. But Knave found hidden manifests from ten years ago, from unknown location in sector where Icarus crashed. Three shipments, three destinations. Corinth, Verona, Avon.
The paper starts to tremble; Jubilee’s hand is shaking. She grew up on Verona. And a rebellion happened there, too—ten years ago. I reach out and cup my hand under hers, steadying the page.
LRI using Avon as laboratory, soldiers as subjects. Whispers would never harm them; Fury must be side effect. Only way to stop everything is for J and F to find proof to show the galaxy. Don’t let my father do this to anyone else.
The rest of Lilac LaRoux’s message is talk of parties again, rambling on as though fashion is her only care in the world. Jubilee lets her hand drop, the page resting against her thigh.
“Why is he doing this?” I can’t think, the background hum of the engines shattering my thoughts. “What does this man have against Avon?”
“It’s not Avon itself,” Jubilee says quietly, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “Avon’s convenient. Far away from the galactic center, too young for anyone to be watching it. An endless war, providing an endless supply of test subjects.”
“Test subjects for what?” Frustration makes my voice crack. “What good does it do him to make people snap with the Fury?”
“Lilac said it was a side effect of whatever he’s doing. Maybe he just hasn’t perfected it yet.” She draws a shaky breath. “I didn’t have time to tell you before, but something happened to Commander Towers, just before—just before everything with Molly.”
The raw fear in Jubilee’s eyes makes my mouth go dry, forcing me to clear my throat. “She snapped?”
She shakes her head. “No, it was something else. She was telling me that LaRoux Industries has been here for years, studying us. They told her and her predecessors that they were studying the Fury, but…” She looks down at her hands, and I know she’s thinking of the bloodstains I washed clean. “She didn’t snap, didn’t attack me. She just stopped. Went back to work. Like something just…took over.”
“Like something was controlling her?” I’m trying not to acknowledge the chill running through me, my conversation with Sofia coming back to me. “My friend in town, the one who helped hide me—Davin Quinn’s daughter. She said her father was vague for a week before the bombing, distracted. You said the Fury is always quick and brutal, but that’s not what happened to Davin, who would have needed time to make and plant a bomb. Or Commander Towers. Or—” My voice gives out.
Jubilee’s nodding, her face ashen in the glow of the control panels. “Or me.” The background hum of the engines and life support is thick and heavy. Jubilee’s voice is quiet, as though to speak the words too loudly might make them true. “Maybe Davin was a test run. Maybe Towers too, to stop her from revealing his secrets. But what wouldn’t a man like Roderick LaRoux do to wield the ability to control people’s minds?”
Sometimes the girl dreams in colors. Her classes at school are the yellow of butter and flower petals, and her books are the rich blue of the deep oceans she reads about. Her mother is warm red-orange, and her father is a lighter peach that highlights it, mingles with it to turn them both the color of sunrise.
But her dreams always fade, and she can never tell what color the orphanage is, or the training base on Paradisa, or the bar where she goes when she’s off duty. She exists there in a colorless world—not black and white, but a muted, faded gray. She doesn’t even know to miss the colors, as though someone has reached into her thoughts and pulled out the memory of what color is.
The girl knows that the boy is looking for her. And when he finds her, his eyes will be green, and she’ll remember.
“NO SIGN OF EIGHT-ONE-NINE YET. Scans continuing. Traffic control on alert, orders to fire at will. Traitors on board.” The comms chatter is all about us. I’ve set the comms headset floating a few inches from my face, which is buried in my hands. With a groan, I thumb the mute button, and we’re left in abrupt silence. The heat shields are all still closed, and without the vastness of space around us, I can almost imagine us back in Flynn’s hideout, trying to wait out our pursuers.
I don’t know what to do next, and that’s killing me. I lift my head to see Flynn watching me, his expression unreadable. “I’m so sorry, Flynn. I never meant to take you away from your home.”
He shifts in his seat, running a finger underneath one of the straps of his harness. “It was my call,” he says quietly. “I could have tried to run. I chose to come.”
He’s as tense as I am, maybe even more so, but it’s so hard to reconcile that with the serenity of weightlessness. His faux-blond hair is floating out away from his head. He’s wearing a worn, much-mended, and too-large shirt his friend in town must’ve found for him, to help him blend in. He looks nothing like the Romeo who dragged me off the base, nothing like the Cormac who threw himself between his own people and me. It’s like that guy’s gone, and I killed him.
“I’m sorry anyway,” I mutter. “God, why is everything so fucked up?”
“Because we make one hell of a team,” Flynn replies lightly, his voice a strained tease. I notice his hands are gripping his armrests, and as he shifts I can see the faint outlines of dampness beneath his palms against the plastic.
It’s with a jolt I remember he’s never been in space before—he’s never even been off the ground before. And he’s trying to relax me.
“Hey,” I try, leaning out as far as my harness will allow me, my hair drifting after me in slow motion. “Do you want to see the stars?”
He blinks, his false bravado falling away as he stares wide-eyed back at me. “The—the what?”
“The stars.” I gesture to the covered viewport in front of us. I could tell him that this might be his last chance to see them, but he already knows that. “They’re right out there. Normally we keep the heat shields on, but there’s no actual need for them out here, only when we’re going through atmo. Want to take a peek?”
He swallows, fingers tightening around his armrests. I want to tell him he’s got nothing to be afraid of—for now, we’re safer up here than we ever were on Avon’s surface. But I know telling him will do no good, because it’s not a rational fear. Even I feel a surge of primal adrenaline when I get up here, every time.
It’s like underwater diving, part of the training all soldiers get during basic. The moment the water closes over your head and you take your first breath through the respirator—your body tells you it can’t breathe, that it’s falling, that you’re going to die. And no amount of logic can stop the feeling, you just have to let it course through you and sweep on past. You have to embrace it. I hold my own breath, watching Flynn.