This Shattered World (Starbound #2)(35)
It only takes half a minute to yank the covering off. I grasp at the sill, swinging myself up and ignoring the complaints of shoulder muscles sore from poling through the swamps. The room inside is sparsely furnished, exactly what I’d expect of a trodaire’s quarters. My eyes go first to the pale gray combat suit hung neatly on the wall, standing like a ghostly sentry over the sleeping soldier nearby. If she’d been wearing it outside the bar, it’s unlikely my bullet would’ve even scratched her unless I got lucky. I try to swallow the anger that wells up, a well-conditioned response to the sight of those suits. They get state-of-the-art armor as thin as cloth; we get nothing but smuggled munitions and heirloom pistols.
Jubilee sleeps on her side, one long brown leg curled up on top of the covers, one hand in a loose fist under her chin, the other tucked up underneath her pillow. I can see her dog tags against the sheets, hanging on the chain around her neck. She even sleeps in military khaki, though it’s just a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. At rest, she looks gentler. I grip the sill and whisper her name. “Jubilee.”
She comes to life, making it clear why she sleeps that way—her hand comes out from under her pillow gripping her gun, her legs kicking free of the covers as she sits bolt upright, lifting the weapon as she blinks away sleep. A second later she spots me, her mouth opening in shock. I actually see her finger tighten convulsively on the trigger, though not quite enough to shoot. “Cormac.” She gasps my name. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m alone,” I tell her. “And unarmed. Don’t shoot me, you’ll have a hell of a time explaining what I’m doing in your bedroom.”
The seconds drag out as she stares at me. Then she grunts assent, lowering the gun—though she doesn’t let go of it. She keeps a wary eye on me as I slither through and drop to the floor. If she has a comment for my stolen uniform, she doesn’t make it.
It’s a small room, furnished only with a narrow bed, a clothes press, and a rickety bedside table holding a framed photograph. It’s the only personal touch I can see in the entire sparse room. In the faint light through the window, I can make out a man, a woman, and a child I suddenly realize is a tiny Jubilee Chase. The man who must be her father is tall and lean, his skin much darker than Jubilee’s, and her mother looks Chinese—I can see her features reflected in the face of the daughter who stands arm in arm with her in the photo. In the face of the girl watching me from across the blankets. I wonder what her parents are like and what they’d make of the two of us, tense and silent.
I break the quiet first. “What the hell happened last night?” I don’t mean the words to sound like a jab, but I can’t take them back, and they hang there in the silence between us.
“It was the Fury.”
Always hiding behind their so-called Fury. I can’t hide the doubt in my expression. She sees it, her lips tightening. Her gaze slides away from my face to fix on the wall. A guilty reaction. “I didn’t move fast enough.”
That hits me like a lead weight. “You were there? That was an innocent civilian who died, he didn’t have anything to do with—”
“I know that,” she snaps. “I don’t need one of your speeches, Cormac. It shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve stopped it.” There’s strain in her voice.
Our truce is shaky at best; I shouldn’t be provoking her. Slowly, reluctantly, I mutter, “You didn’t pull the trigger.” No, you just stood there and watched it happen.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault when it’s my man blowing someone’s brains out.” She shakes her head. “She’d only been here a few weeks, she wasn’t reporting any of the dreams yet.”
“What do dreams have to do with anything?”
“They’re the only warning the Fury gives us that someone’s about to snap. If we get them off-world in time, they’re fine. But every soldier posted to Avon gets them eventually, except—” She stops, but I know what the end of the sentence is. Except me. Even the Fianna know her reputation for being the only unbreakable trodaire on Avon.
Jubilee closes her eyes. “This time there was no warning, it was over in seconds. She didn’t remember what happened, afterward.”
How could she not remember? I sink down onto the edge of the bed and notice how tired Jubilee looks; there are circles under her closed eyes that weren’t there that first night I pulled her out of the bar. Her eyelids are puffy, face drawn. With grief. She’s telling the truth. Or what she sees as the truth
“What’ll happen to her?” I ask finally.
Jubilee’s jaw clenches as she opens her eyes again. “She’s already on her way to Paradisa. Desk duty, most likely, until she retires.”
How convenient. No trial for that soldier, no punishment for outright murdering a teenager. They hide her away somewhere quiet, and no one will ever know what she did. I want to scream at Jubilee that her side has it wrong.
But what if she’s right? She seems so sure. What if the Fury does exist, and it isn’t just an excuse for the military to persecute and murder civilians? I’m reminded abruptly of what she said when locked in a cell in the bowels of our hideout: There are never just two sides to anything.
“Cormac,” she sighs, breaking into my thoughts. “Why are you here? Felt like a little chat with your favorite hired gun?” Her voice is bitter as she echoes the words I used.