This Shattered World
Page 36
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“I have to get out of here.” I shove the mask aside so she can hear me better. “I have to try to stop this from getting worse.”
She reaches for a bottle beside my bed, angling the built-in straw so I can take a sip. My throat burns as I swallow. “Keep drinking this, it will heal your throat. As soon as you can move, I’ll help you get out, for whatever you can do out there.” She sets aside the bottle and reaches for an adhesive bandage from a rack above my head. As I watch, she starts wrapping it around my forearm, covering my genetag. My heart skips. What would I have said if someone tried to scan it?
She finishes smoothing the bandage down, expression grim and locked away, then straightens. “I have to go. Anybody wakes up, say you’re from Patron. A new boatload came in yesterday, nobody knows their faces yet.”
She turns to walk away, her purposeful stride reduced to a weary shuffle. Even locked in a cell, beaten and bloody and tied to a post in the ground, she never let the steel go from her spine; now her shoulders are bowed, her hands trembling before she eases them into her pockets. And I know what’s sweeping through her, stripping away her strength, because it’s sweeping through me, too.
We’ve lost. The ceasefire is over.
She’s there again when I wake, after a night spent choking down mouthfuls of the sweet, cloying gel that starts to heal my burned throat, and pretending to be asleep to avoid questions I can’t answer. Trying not to imagine Sean back home, making up some story about why I’m gone, covering for me and pacing, panicking about where I really am. I hope that’s the worst that’s happening. If this bombing was McBride’s opening salvo, then all-out war could be breaking loose out there in the swamps.
In her combat gear it’s impossible to think of her as anything other than a soldier, especially after staring down the barrel of her gun. But she’s pulled a hard plastic chair up to my bedside, and now she’s got her head pillowed on her arms, crossed on the edge of the bed. My eyes don’t sting anymore, and one of the meds they gave me has dimmed the pounding headache enough that she’s surrounded by only a faint aura of light.
From what little I can see, she’s washed her face, but the soot stains are still there around her hairline, and she hasn’t taken off the filthy combat suit yet. Which means the base is still worried that the bombing was the first stage of an assault. I push down the oxygen mask, taking an experimental breath. I can manage, if I don’t inhale too deeply. So close, she smells of sweat and ash and grief, and I want to lift my hand and reach out to her, ignoring the ache in my arm. I don’t, and a few moments later she seems to sense I’m awake, lifting her head.
She blinks at me once, and then comes alert faster than seems possible. She clears her throat. “He’s dead. The bomber. Died in the blast.”
I force myself to breathe in slowly. The air reeks of disinfectant, sharp on my tongue. My mind seizes on that fact, putting off learning what I don’t want to know. It could be anyone from our camp. I don’t want it to be anyone I know, not even the worst of them. “Was it—” My voice is still a rusty whisper.
“McBride?” Jubilee interrupts, saving me from speaking further. “No. There weren’t any usable fingerprints left, but the dental records say it’s a man called Davin Quinn. There aren’t any arrests on his record, not so much as a fine. He lived in town.”
She pauses to let me absorb the significance of that. In town. Not a rebel, not a soldier with the Fury. And I knew Davin Quinn, I know his daughter. He’s not even a sympathizer. He’s nothing to do with us.
She continues, frustrated and bewildered. “He was only in the system because he got a tooth pulled a couple of years ago. How did your people drag a man like him into this?”
It’s a ridiculous reaction, but I want to laugh, disbelief still crashing over me. “We didn’t. Quinn was about as likely to blow up this place as you. He must have had other business on the base. It wasn’t him.”
“It was.” She leans in closer, keeping her voice down so the others in the ward won’t overhear us. “He had the detonator on him. We’ve got security footage showing him talking to a girl as if nothing was wrong, then turning around and walking into the barracks a minute or two before the blast.”
“Then somebody made him do it,” I tell her. “He has a daughter my age.” Sofia Quinn’s face as it was when we were children swims up in my mind too, smiling in my memory. I wonder if she’s the girl he was talking to on the security footage. “He wouldn’t do this to her, Jubilee. He had no reason.”
“Mori had no reason to fire on a civilian in the town,” she says quietly.
“But that was the Fury,” I press. “This is completely different. Your soldier was an off-worlder; Davin was born here. No native’s ever snapped from the Fury.” But something icy stirs inside me at the thought. I never doubted our belief that the Fury was a trodairí excuse until Jubilee looked me in the eye and swore it was real. But Davin Quinn was a man of peace, a man with no battle to fight and a daughter to live for.
“You’re right about one thing. This wasn’t the Fury. When our people snap, they grab the nearest knife and stab their friends and anyone else near them, Cormac. They don’t build bombs.” Her voice comes quick and sharp, and it’s only after glancing over her shoulder at my unconscious roommates that she takes a breath and quiets again. “Building a bomb takes time, planning, deliberation. The Fury is…savage. Brutal. As quick to strike as it is to pass again.”
I shake my head, gritting my teeth. “It wasn’t him. I’ll swear it on my life. Something, or someone, must have made him do it.”
Jubilee gives a frustrated sigh, scrubbing her hand across her face. I can see she’s troubled; it gives me hope that perhaps she believes me, perhaps there is something more to what happened on the base tonight. But then I realize she’s watching me, her expression tight. I’m coming to see her better, to understand the nuances of her closed-off face—and I know this isn’t the only news she came here to share.
“Just tell me.” My voice won’t come out right. The smoke I inhaled has turned it to a raspy parody of itself.
Her brown eyes fix on mine for a brief moment before flitting up to focus on the wall beyond my head, expression registering a fleeting but intense struggle. I’m afraid speaking will cause her to shut down again, so I wait, and let her fight her battle alone.
She reaches for a bottle beside my bed, angling the built-in straw so I can take a sip. My throat burns as I swallow. “Keep drinking this, it will heal your throat. As soon as you can move, I’ll help you get out, for whatever you can do out there.” She sets aside the bottle and reaches for an adhesive bandage from a rack above my head. As I watch, she starts wrapping it around my forearm, covering my genetag. My heart skips. What would I have said if someone tried to scan it?
She finishes smoothing the bandage down, expression grim and locked away, then straightens. “I have to go. Anybody wakes up, say you’re from Patron. A new boatload came in yesterday, nobody knows their faces yet.”
She turns to walk away, her purposeful stride reduced to a weary shuffle. Even locked in a cell, beaten and bloody and tied to a post in the ground, she never let the steel go from her spine; now her shoulders are bowed, her hands trembling before she eases them into her pockets. And I know what’s sweeping through her, stripping away her strength, because it’s sweeping through me, too.
We’ve lost. The ceasefire is over.
She’s there again when I wake, after a night spent choking down mouthfuls of the sweet, cloying gel that starts to heal my burned throat, and pretending to be asleep to avoid questions I can’t answer. Trying not to imagine Sean back home, making up some story about why I’m gone, covering for me and pacing, panicking about where I really am. I hope that’s the worst that’s happening. If this bombing was McBride’s opening salvo, then all-out war could be breaking loose out there in the swamps.
In her combat gear it’s impossible to think of her as anything other than a soldier, especially after staring down the barrel of her gun. But she’s pulled a hard plastic chair up to my bedside, and now she’s got her head pillowed on her arms, crossed on the edge of the bed. My eyes don’t sting anymore, and one of the meds they gave me has dimmed the pounding headache enough that she’s surrounded by only a faint aura of light.
From what little I can see, she’s washed her face, but the soot stains are still there around her hairline, and she hasn’t taken off the filthy combat suit yet. Which means the base is still worried that the bombing was the first stage of an assault. I push down the oxygen mask, taking an experimental breath. I can manage, if I don’t inhale too deeply. So close, she smells of sweat and ash and grief, and I want to lift my hand and reach out to her, ignoring the ache in my arm. I don’t, and a few moments later she seems to sense I’m awake, lifting her head.
She blinks at me once, and then comes alert faster than seems possible. She clears her throat. “He’s dead. The bomber. Died in the blast.”
I force myself to breathe in slowly. The air reeks of disinfectant, sharp on my tongue. My mind seizes on that fact, putting off learning what I don’t want to know. It could be anyone from our camp. I don’t want it to be anyone I know, not even the worst of them. “Was it—” My voice is still a rusty whisper.
“McBride?” Jubilee interrupts, saving me from speaking further. “No. There weren’t any usable fingerprints left, but the dental records say it’s a man called Davin Quinn. There aren’t any arrests on his record, not so much as a fine. He lived in town.”
She pauses to let me absorb the significance of that. In town. Not a rebel, not a soldier with the Fury. And I knew Davin Quinn, I know his daughter. He’s not even a sympathizer. He’s nothing to do with us.
She continues, frustrated and bewildered. “He was only in the system because he got a tooth pulled a couple of years ago. How did your people drag a man like him into this?”
It’s a ridiculous reaction, but I want to laugh, disbelief still crashing over me. “We didn’t. Quinn was about as likely to blow up this place as you. He must have had other business on the base. It wasn’t him.”
“It was.” She leans in closer, keeping her voice down so the others in the ward won’t overhear us. “He had the detonator on him. We’ve got security footage showing him talking to a girl as if nothing was wrong, then turning around and walking into the barracks a minute or two before the blast.”
“Then somebody made him do it,” I tell her. “He has a daughter my age.” Sofia Quinn’s face as it was when we were children swims up in my mind too, smiling in my memory. I wonder if she’s the girl he was talking to on the security footage. “He wouldn’t do this to her, Jubilee. He had no reason.”
“Mori had no reason to fire on a civilian in the town,” she says quietly.
“But that was the Fury,” I press. “This is completely different. Your soldier was an off-worlder; Davin was born here. No native’s ever snapped from the Fury.” But something icy stirs inside me at the thought. I never doubted our belief that the Fury was a trodairí excuse until Jubilee looked me in the eye and swore it was real. But Davin Quinn was a man of peace, a man with no battle to fight and a daughter to live for.
“You’re right about one thing. This wasn’t the Fury. When our people snap, they grab the nearest knife and stab their friends and anyone else near them, Cormac. They don’t build bombs.” Her voice comes quick and sharp, and it’s only after glancing over her shoulder at my unconscious roommates that she takes a breath and quiets again. “Building a bomb takes time, planning, deliberation. The Fury is…savage. Brutal. As quick to strike as it is to pass again.”
I shake my head, gritting my teeth. “It wasn’t him. I’ll swear it on my life. Something, or someone, must have made him do it.”
Jubilee gives a frustrated sigh, scrubbing her hand across her face. I can see she’s troubled; it gives me hope that perhaps she believes me, perhaps there is something more to what happened on the base tonight. But then I realize she’s watching me, her expression tight. I’m coming to see her better, to understand the nuances of her closed-off face—and I know this isn’t the only news she came here to share.
“Just tell me.” My voice won’t come out right. The smoke I inhaled has turned it to a raspy parody of itself.
Her brown eyes fix on mine for a brief moment before flitting up to focus on the wall beyond my head, expression registering a fleeting but intense struggle. I’m afraid speaking will cause her to shut down again, so I wait, and let her fight her battle alone.
