Empress of a Thousand Skies(21)

“Not good enough.”

“Then our only alternative is the tauri-based compound. You’ll drop down to twenty degrees. But after three minutes you’ll suffer painful paralysis, and after four minutes you will be dead. Also, the sucra serum meant to reverse it is highly unstable.”

“What I’m hearing is: We use the tauri. You inject me with the juice, and we make a run for the escape pod.” Aly picked up the sucra serum. It was purple, like the dawn. Last time he saw the sunrise he’d been on leave and went to Jeth’s on Chram.

“I strongly recommend against it,” Pavel insisted now.

“P, there’s no other choice.” He grabbed for the second syringe and plunged it into his heart before Pavel could stop him. A black hole rose up to meet him, and he fell into it—through the air, through the floor, into the dark space that crushed all matter.

He was both trapped in the body and floating above it, his soul split in two. Then all the matter of his body re-collected at this point in space and time, bouncing back in a fraction of a second. He shot up. Everything felt numb and powerful at once. He wanted to crush something with his hands, and he was suddenly angry. Really. Angry. He’d mow all the capital sons of choirtois down now.

But when he tried to take a step, his legs wouldn’t work. He would’ve fallen again if Pavel hadn’t rolled over and buffered his fall.

“Paralysis set in early. Three minutes and twenty seconds out.”

He was draped over Pavel now, his feet dragging behind them. He walked, or tried to, which meant that he kicked his feet out weakly and focused on the hum of Pavel’s wheels. They had exited the medbay, and he was cold. Shivering, teeth-chattering cold.

“Aly? Your heat signature is now undetectable. Answer if you can hear me.”

He let out a groan.

“Two minutes and forty-five seconds out. Irreversible damage will set in soon. On your order, I will inject the serum.”

“The serum?” It sounded familiar, urgent even—like a very important part of a very important plan they’d discussed. But what plan, Aly couldn’t quite recall . . .

“I believe you are experiencing temporary memory loss. It may mean your brain is being deprived of oxygen.”

But no. He could remember. He was back in school, with the Fontisian missionary, trying to pronounce Vodhan’s name for the first time—and how weird the word felt in his mouth, all the sharp syllables rolling off his tongue in exactly the wrong way. Still, he’d liked the idea of one god, one master plan. Sometimes it still felt like Vodhan talked to him in whispers, and he felt just a little bit lighter and a little bit less alone.

“Do you see a light, Aly? If so, be aware it is an electrical surge in your brain, and it means you will likely die.”

“You’re a bummer, Pavel.” Aly’s jaw felt heavy, his tongue swollen to three times its size. “I can’t bring you anywhere.”

“Good, Alyosha. Attempts at humor mean the frontal cortex is still intact. Two minutes and fifteen seconds out.” But just then Pavel came to an abrupt halt. “I detect movement.”

Pavel backtracked through the hallway toward the access ladder that led down to the engine room. “A temporary solution,” the droid said in a low voice. “Based on your bone density and the height of the fall, you should not sustain serious injuries.”

“Fall?” he asked, even as Pavel laid him down and rolled around behind his shoulders. “What fall?”

The droid pushed.

Aly dropped. When he slammed against the ground, his head hit the grating and he saw stars—but it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt. It was only cold. He thought of the day they’d gotten the news that his mom and Alina had died. He saw his dad standing over him all over again. Be a man, he was saying. Be a man . . .

“Two minutes out,” Pavel called down to him. His voice at the top of the ladder sounded tinny. Aly realized where he was—steps away from the engine room. Then Pavel disappeared.

“No,” he tried to yell, but his mouth wasn’t working anymore. He was alone, shivering, his head busted open. How, exactly, did he get here? He’d never seen snow, but this was what it must feel like to be buried in it. Even his brain was freezing over. Memories flashed from his life: walking alongside his dad, water dripping off a corrugated metal roof. Someone was coming toward them, but he couldn’t remember who or why. They were on their way to fly a kite . . .

Aly slipped out of consciousness and then woke again. How long had it been? A second? An hour? He heard the NX marching. The hiss and zip of expensive hydraulics boiled the blood in his heart.

He was seven. His dad’s enormous hand pawed at his shirt and pulled him close.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to. And don’t say anything smart.” His dad had whispered the last word like it was something foul, shameful. A Fontisian was passing, but he wasn’t like the missionaries who taught Vodhan’s word in the droopy makeshift prayer tents. The Fontisians were generally larger, with pale skin and pointy ears the kids would whisper about. It was rumored they could hear anything, anywhere. But this particular man had dark tattoos all along his neck that looked like they were clawing their way out from under his shift.

“What’s this?” the Fontisian had asked, as he grabbed roughly for their kite. Aly was too scared to speak—and the man had repeated himself, this time in Wraetan. He’d accented it in all the wrong places. And when his dad told him it was a kite they’d made together, the Fontisian’s answer was cold.