This Shattered World (Starbound #2)(23)

“Everything I do is for my family.” Her voice is sharp—I’ve hit a nerve, and it costs her. One hand presses to her side as she gulps air against the pain of her broken ribs. Looks like Captain Lee Chase has a weak spot after all.

I don’t know what I expected her to be like, but it wasn’t this. The stories about her say she’s made of steel—she volunteered to come to Avon, the planet that drives men mad. She never runs, never hides, never loses. Stone-faced Chase, inhuman and deadly.

But she’s lying here, half-curled up on the bare mattress, her eye swelling and her lip oozing blood. She doesn’t look like a killer—she barely looks like she’s going to survive the night. I know some of what they say about her is true. Deadly, certainly. Made of steel, probably. But inhuman?

“Jubilee, please.” She looks at me, her jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin line. “Just give me something. A tiny, insignificant thing. Something I can bring to them to show you’re working with us. Something to keep you alive.”

Jubilee swallows. I can see her throat move, see the way her fingers curl more tightly around her own arms. And in that moment I know I was wrong. It isn’t that she doesn’t understand. She knows she’s going to die if she doesn’t give in. She knows—and she’s choosing death. Her gaze is steady, fixed on mine. Her mouth relaxes, trembles the tiniest fraction. Even now, with that deadly grace muted by her injuries, I could watch her for hours. I was wrong, when I thought she couldn’t feel fear. She’s terrified.

She lifts her chin. “What’s your name?”

I have to clear my throat, my voice rasping. “I—told you. I can’t tell you—”

“Romeo,” she interrupts gently. For all her flippant remarks about death, I can see it in her face, her dark eyes, her lips as they press together. She’s afraid. “Come on.”

The silence of this cell is oppressive. It’s separated from the rest of the base enough that you can’t hear the sounds of life—it’s as though this tiny hole in the rock is all there is. This hole, the ratty mattress, and the girl looking death in the face. I know why she’s asking. Because it won’t matter if I tell her.

“Flynn.” It comes out as a croak.

She lets her head rest against the stone at her back, one corner of her mouth lifting a little in a smile.

I try again, and this time my voice is a little steadier. “My name’s Flynn.”

“Sit still, it’s your own fault you have to wear these bandages.”

“Mama, are there ghosts here in November?”

“Where did you get that idea? Did your father tell you that?”

“I saw one. Right before the firecracker.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, love. You saw the flash from the explosion, that’s all.”

“Then why make firecrackers to scare them away?”

“Because—because our ancestors did. Because lighting the fireworks helps us remember everyone who came before us.”

“If I was a ghost, firecrackers wouldn’t scare me.”

“Why were you playing with them in the first place? You could have been very badly hurt.”

“The boys were doing it. I’m braver than them.”

“Letting yourself get hurt isn’t brave, love. Brave is protecting others from hurt. I’m disappointed in you.”

THE CELL THEY’VE GOT ME in isn’t that big. Only about two meters by three, and most of the floor space is taken up with a saggy mattress that smells like mildew. The door is steel, no doubt salvaged from commandeered military equipment. When I can make it to my feet I try forcing it, hard enough to make me gasp from the pain in my ribs, but it doesn’t budge.

I spend a while stretching, testing out my muscles. I can’t do much about my abdominals, what with the broken ribs and the gunshot wound, but my arms and neck and legs all still work. Romeo might think I’ve given up, and that’s fine. When they come for me, I’ll be ready for them. Because the last thing people will say about Lee Chase after she’s gone is that she just rolled over and died without a fight.

The bioluminescence—the wispfire—washes the cave with an eerie, soft light. Unsettling, but beautiful too. When I tilt my head back, my vision is flooded with blue-green stars, filling me with a strange, sweeping vertigo. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the stars that these seem brighter, more real. But at least I remember stars. At least I’ve seen the sky.

I jerk my eyes away. I should be trying to find a weapon. The madman McBride was sporting a military-issue Gleidel, no doubt looted from a fallen soldier; if my hands had been free, maybe I could’ve gotten it from him. With one shot, I could’ve gotten justice for the murders he’s committed over the years since the last open rebellion. But since they haven’t fed me yet, I don’t have so much as a spoon to work with. I ease down onto the mattress, too exhausted to think. It’s only then that it occurs to me: mattresses have metal springs.

I let myself have a minute to sit there, unmoving, gathering my strength. Then, muffling the sound of tearing fabric with my body, I rip open the corner of the mattress farthest from the door. Before long my hands are aching, cramping, but the sharp spring I’m trying to work loose is moving more freely. If I bend it back and forth enough, the metal will fatigue to the point where it snaps.