Honor Among Thieves (The Honors #1)(20)

I said nothing. If he’d threatened me, I probably would have smashed the H2 to make a point, but that apologetic tone disarmed me, a little.

Hell, I thought. It’s just some reading.

I sat down and picked up the H2. Data skimming at light speed through the legal disclaimers and warnings, I scrawled my signature with a fingertip. When the legal stuff was out of the way, a new file opened.

It showed footage of a Leviathan in space, lazily unfurling its dorsal sails to catch the sun, and I guess I was supposed to be impressed, but that was pretty difficult when I’d already been subjected to a numbing array of Honors season vids.

But after that was real intel. Not the glistening, polished docudramas, but uncensored details about First Contact—recordings of the astronauts a hundred years back aboard the International Space Station. Of the alarms going off as one of the sections blew. Of the controlled urgency of their communications back and forth with Earth. Listening to those long-dead people recording their last messages to families, I couldn’t help it. Hearing them was different from actors saying the same words. It was raw and real and—even now, even with the low-quality vid—I couldn’t look away.

And then, the Leviathan. Two of them, appearing out of the shadow of the moon, swimming toward the ISS like space was ocean. Circling it.

The message appeared simultaneously on every computer screen aboard the human station: WE HELP.

“I know,” Marko said, and I jerked out of my trance. “I try to imagine how those men and women must have felt, in that moment. On the one hand, this . . . entirely alien creature, with unknown motives. And on the other hand . . . a chance to live. It required extraordinary trust, I think, to choose to believe them.”

Or just desperation, I thought.

I dove into the reading, which included technical specs about the interior areas of the Leviathan, descriptions of crew quarters and amenities provided, and an overview of what would happen in my week-long training and PR sessions. It was a lot. Way too much, in fact.

“We’re nearly there,” he said eventually, which came as a surprise.

I’d almost forgotten I wasn’t alone, but when I looked up, Marko had cleared the window, and beyond it . . . beyond it lay New York City.

The newest of the towers reached above the clouds, and they moved, constantly, slowly shifting like clock parts, so that residents had a panoramic view of the city. I couldn’t look away as we sped closer, closer, swallowed up by the tiered streets before we dipped down into a tunnel beneath them. The train emerged from the rushing darkness and glided into the station, to a smooth and perfectly controlled stop. A pretty tone sounded, and the latch on the door went green. Gazing at what awaited us, Marko looked tired too. And resigned. I recognized his press face.

“Does this ever stop?” I asked.

“The crowds? Eventually. You get used to it,” he replied with a half smile. “It’s like the Mars lottery—everyone dreams of being chosen. So they’ll be obsessed at first, but then someone else hits the jackpot, and you’re old news.”

That was a lie. He’d been holoed and followed every second since he’d been picked, and now, so would I. But there was currently no better choice.

A girl around fourteen shrieked when the door opened and begged him to sign her H2. With a smile and wave, he shook his head, escorting me through the throng gathered on either side of the cordoned-off red carpet to the street, where another e-car idled.

But I stopped cold because somebody I hadn’t seen in years was waiting in front of us. Time hadn’t been kind to him. His brown hair was mostly gray, and his pasty skin had both wrinkles and rosacea. The din faded and I felt like a spotlight might as well be shining on the two of us.

Dad.

He came toward me with a huge smile and hugged me like he’d never said I was worthless, like he’d never been a monster bellowing at me to stop complaining. “Zara, I’m proud of you.”

Proud. Of. You.

I couldn’t believe those words had just come out of his mouth. When I remembered the coldness in his eyes when he’d “disciplined” me, determined to drive the devil out, I swallowed a scream. Over the years, he’d made it clear that I disappointed him in every possible way and that his love had to be earned.

Now it seemed like getting picked as an Honor made me worthy, at least for the cameras.

I clenched my teeth and held it in. I didn’t return his hug, but I didn’t shove him away either. My father stepped back after a long, awkward moment and looked at me with what I realized was . . . uncertainty. “Zara? How have you been?”

How have I been? I thought about the Zone, going hungry, all the nights I’d huddled in the cold with Derry. I couldn’t speak or I would have shouted in his face. I might’ve chosen life in the Zone over dealing with him, but if he’d been different—patient with me and good to Mom—then maybe . . . Well, no point wasting my energy on what-ifs.

I glimpsed flashes of my “inspiring” story (a word they actually used) playing giant-sized on buildings around us. My scowl looked impressive on that scale. They were calling me a “wild card pick” on the news, speculating on the mystery of exactly why the Leviathan wanted me. Dad’s picture flashed up, smiling just as he was now.

“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” I couldn’t shut out his voice, especially when he was in my face like this. I smelled day-old garlic. “Sharon says—”