Honor Among Thieves (The Honors #1)(35)

I spun around and faced the wall, as if he was standing there. As if he wasn’t all around me. “What happened?”

“We were in the black,” he said. “The black between stars. Off the course we should have followed, but I thought—I thought that the alternate route would be more interesting. I was very young, and it was too far between stars. I . . . I could not ration my energy so far. I fell asleep.”

Trying to understand, I asked, “What’s so bad about sleeping?”

“For you, it’s a quiet period, but for us, it can be more. Deeper.”

“Like hibernation?’

He considered the word before answering, “Like that, yes. That was the first time I fell into a very deep, unplanned sleep; it is a failing that is rare among my kind. I never realized it could be dangerous until then. But my Honors didn’t know how to wake me, and . . . several meteorites pierced my skin. By the time I’d healed and woken, it was—it was too late. The system that provided them with air had been damaged and took too long to heal.”

“When . . . when was this?”

“My third voyage,” he said quietly. “I am very careful now to stay to the approved routes, where I know I will receive enough light. On the Tour, I don’t stray too far into the black. But I am graduating soon, so I have asked for this device. You must complete it. Before I take the Journey, it will be installed, and when I fall asleep, it will shock me awake. An alarm, to protect my Honors.”

A wave of grief swelled, crashing down, closing on me from all sides—Nadim’s guilt. It was easier to sense his emotions when I touched him, but this was powerful enough that even without contact, it felt like being coated in ashes, in a thick, choking pall of utter sadness. This story hadn’t been circulated by the media; that was damn sure. The Honors program must have compensated the families for the loss and quietly swept the tragedy under the rug. Way before my time.

“I was so young,” he said. “And I will never let it happen again. That’s why this is important, Zara. That’s why you must do the work. Please.”

I could hardly breathe under that crushing burden. Nadim’s guilt hadn’t faded, though this must have happened decades ago.

I put a hand against the wall. Not a conscious decision. Comfort. One wasn’t enough. I put both hands there, leaning toward him. His emotions came through even more clearly, and it was everything I could do not to weep for him. “It wasn’t your fault. Everybody sleeps. Even Leviathan, right?”

“I should only go into a dark sleep when it is safe to do so. It was my responsibility. I can’t fail again,” he said.

I didn’t even know why I did it. Maybe just because I needed to. But I bent forward and rested my cheek against the wall. I felt a pulse of something like surprise, then relief, then a rush of something very complicated bolt through me and through him too.

The choking grief slowly eased away, replaced by something like . . . wonder.

“It’s . . . less. You made it less.”

I didn’t ask if he meant the grief or the guilt, mostly because I was basking in the unique pleasure of making things better with just a touch. With just caring. For a few seconds, we floated together, just streaming that inexplicable connection. Quietly I pushed off, out of—what was that? An embrace?—and picked up my H2.

Sometimes I wasn’t sure what questions would bother him. “Is it some kind of genetic condition? I mean, with all your advances—”

“Yes, it is linked to a mutation. Because of it, when I am awake, I am much better at channeling energy in a crisis than most of my kind. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. You probably don’t know why Beatriz is good at math and you prefer more practical concepts.”

He had a point. “Well, she’s studied more, and I do have a knack with gadgets.”

“Among my kind, having this . . . mutation can be seen as something that could disqualify me from taking the Journey. But if I make this modification, it should convince the Elder that I can manage my condition appropriately.” Nadim paused, like maybe this was a gray area.

“I’ve got it.” The way I read it, this sleep issue was along the lines of a disability. So this was an accommodation, not a fix.

“I need this to keep you safe,” he said. “Will you do as I ask now?”

“Depends.”

“Zara!”

“Is there an off switch?”

He sighed. “Yes, because all Leviathan must enter the dark sleep at least a few times in their life. The device is built with a code that will allow it to be disabled under certain conditions of safety. It must only be used when I am bathed in starlight, and there are no other risk factors. I will place this code in the records. Is that acceptable?”

“Then absolutely.”

It was grueling work, requiring both technical comprehension and physical dexterity, but I was in my wheelhouse. I blazed through the assembly, and I found a few things to add on as I went, including a second, hidden off switch—a mechanical one. I didn’t always trust beamed code. If Nadim needed to enter that deeper sleep state, and the damn shock collar wouldn’t let him, then there needed to be a backup.

But I didn’t tell him, because I knew he’d object to me modding the design. I skipped lunch and kept working, flying through progress steps, all the way to the testing phase.