This Shattered World (Starbound #2)(95)

“That was incredible,” Flynn says softly.

I shake my head. “If I were a pilot it would’ve been smooth as butter. It was stupid, is what it was. We’re lucky we didn’t break apart.”

“How far are we from your base?”

“Three, four hours by boat. Quicker if they spotted our descent and send a chopper or a skimmer. The shuttle’s too easy to spot—we can’t stay here.”

Flynn doesn’t answer right away, gazing out into the darkness. His body’s angled toward the distant hideout that shelters the Fianna, where he’s lived for the last ten years. I want to touch him, show him somehow that he’s not alone without them. But before I can, he gives a sharp exhale and a nod. “There’s a dugout not far from here, totally invisible from the air. There’s a few days’ rations, a med supply kit; it’s supposed to be a hideout if any of us get separated and can’t make it back to the caves. We can hole up there until they stop looking for us.”

I glance at him, even though his features are concealed by the gloom. “Seriously? God, Flynn, how many of these secrets do you have tucked away that the military doesn’t know about?”

This time I can see his smile in the glow of the emergency lights, tired and grim. “At least one more, luckily for us.”

It takes only a few seconds for the runabout to auto-inflate, but we take the time to stock up on the emergency ration bars from the shuttle and raid the first aid kit for anything useful. The footing is treacherous on the wobbly, unlit gangway, but we can’t risk a light that could carry for klicks and betray our position. The only illumination is from the emergency exit lights on the shuttle. I’d shut those down if I could, but they’re designed to stay lit no matter what.

It’s only after we’ve got everything I can think to grab on board that I pause for a breath. I can see Flynn only as a silhouette in the dim, reddish glow of the emergency lighting. He comes closer, reaching for me—it’s as much to be sure where I am as to take my hand.

“Ready to go?” His voice is quiet, though there’s no one to hear him but me.

“I’m ready,” I say, but I can hear how very tired I sound.

His fighters, my soldiers; there are enemies on every side, and none of them know what’s really happening. They’re all pawns in this sick experiment of LaRoux’s, and these whispers, these tortured, vicious things, they’re making it happen.

He lifts my hands in his, ducking his head to touch his lips to them. “We’ll get through this. We’ll disappear into the swamp if we have to, we’ll search this place meter by meter until we find proof.”

Even here, in the middle of the swamp with no hope, his voice carries a certainty he can’t possibly feel, a fire that starts to banish the icy dread in my heart. This is the same passion his sister used to incite a war. I’m glad he’s on my side.

“Let’s get…” I start, but the words die in my throat. Over Flynn’s shoulder, out in the darkness of the swamp, is a light.

It’s so faint at first that I almost believe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Too small and pale to be running lights on a military launch, but too steady and green-white to be the lamps used by the rebels. It reminds me strangely of the phosphorescent algae in the rebel caves, as though it took wing and followed us out into the swamp.

Memory unfurls, no more than a single thread unraveling from my subconscious. It carries no image, no event, only the certainty that I’ve seen this before. The natives call them wisps, but I…I called it something else.

Flynn sees my expression and turns, his breath catching as he sees it too. He steps back, body tense with fear. I know I ought to react, ought to tense as well, let my training and caution win out. But the little ball of greenish light holds me transfixed, calling to a memory long, long forgotten.

Flynn’s talking, shouting in my ear; when I can’t answer, he draws his own gun, the one taken from the unconscious soldier at the spaceport, and aims it at the light. “Jubilee, snap out of it!”

“Wait.” I gasp the word, shaking myself free of my memory’s spell. “Flynn—stop. I’ve seen this before.”

“Avon’s wisps?” His voice is short, tense. The gun doesn’t waver; he may not be prone to violence, but he handles the weapon with confidence, with ease.

“No.” I reach out, laying my hand on his arm. “Not here on Avon. I’ve seen this on Verona.”

Flynn’s eyes finally snap to mine, away from the wisp bobbing gently in the air. “There were wisps on Verona?”

“In November,” I reply. “I’d forgotten them, until now. But I…I know this thing. I called it my ghost….”

But the wisp is answering me, dipping in time with my words, sweeping a glowing path through the night as though dancing with my memories as I try to piece them together.

“It could…create things,” I murmur. “Paint pictures in my mind.”

“Lilac told us the creatures—the whispers—can make you see things that aren’t really there.” Flynn glances from me to the wisp, the gun lowering, though he keeps both hands firmly in place. “And that LaRoux Industries had brought them to Verona.”

My thoughts are spinning, trying to piece together fragments of memory, things I’d long dismissed as childish imagination. I take a step forward and the wisp leaps up, darting away, then pausing—then darting again. “It wants us to follow it,” I gasp. But before I can move again, the wisp is gone, its glow flickering once, then vanishing. “Maybe Lilac was right, maybe they’re trying to help.”