This Shattered World
Page 93

I hold down the button on the side of the transmitter and start to speak. “My name is Flynn Cormac.”
Below, I see a couple of heads snap up at the sound of my voice, or maybe at my name—I can’t tell whether the silhouettes are soldiers or Fianna. “This is a transmission for the people of Avon, and for all those beyond Avon who can hear me. I’m the third generation of my family from this planet. We’ve been locked in conflict for years now. Fighting for the right to be heard, fighting for the right to live, just because our planet hasn’t passed review yet. And the soldiers here have been fighting too, for order, for peace. Terrible things have happened to all of us. Good men and women have died, and the people of Avon have been driven to turn on each other.” I’m forced to stop, swallowing so hard the lump in my throat hurts, as I think of Fergal’s tiny body and unseeing eyes, and of the madness and grief that drove McBride to kill him. “Desperation has led my own people to the murder of innocents because they can no longer imagine a future without war.”
There are so many things I want to say—I want to talk about the whispers, the way LaRoux isolated them, tortured them, forced them to evolve into individuals they were never meant to be, so they could never go back. I wish I knew how to share their grief with the galaxy, but I don’t know how much time I have. “I’m broadcasting from a secret facility LaRoux Industries has had here for years. LaRoux himself has been keeping beings on Avon, creatures completely different from us. Whispers from another universe with the power to control thoughts. He’s used them to slow down our terraforming, to block our transmissions so no one could hear us calling for help. Until LaRoux is brought to justice, we’re not safe. None of us are.”
I see figures huddled wherever there’s shelter, ready to resume fighting in an instant—but for now, they listen. I clear my throat, force my voice to sound strong.
“We need you to watch us. We need you to ask about us, and care about us, and remember your colonies were once young too. We need your protection, and we need you to know that if anything happens to Avon, it was LaRoux, not an accident. Don’t let him hide the evidence of what he’s done. We’re asking you and trusting you to bear witness for us.” I suck in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Thank you. Message ends.”
I bow my head, and my hand’s trembling, gripping the mic so tightly I can’t seem to make my fingers unwind. Below me the silence echoes. But if just one person’s finger slips on a trigger, a single gunshot will end all hope of peace.
I flick the switches that will end the transmission across the planet and the galaxy, but I leave the loudspeaker in place, lifting the transmitter one more time. “I’m going to come down now. It’s time to talk.”
And finally, I let the mic go. There are stairs leading down inside the tower, and my legs are shaking as I descend, my footsteps the only sound. Jubilee’s at the bottom of these stairs. Badly injured, certainly. Perhaps dead by now. My mind is numb, my heartbeat leaden. My fingers fumble with the lock from the inside until I can open the door and step out into the open.
“Mr. Cormac.” The voice rings out from the swamp, and I know it—Commander Towers herself. I crane my neck until I see her, approaching the fence, which was torn to pieces in the battle. Some of the Fianna are melting out of the swamp as well, revealing their battle plan, clearly intending to flank the military in the darkness. It might even have worked.
Though they hang back in the shadows of the buildings, crouching low and keeping out of sight, I can see a hundred of the Fianna at least, the whites of their eyes showing against the mud camouflaging their faces. Plenty of guns still trained on me. “Stop,” I call. “We need to tend to our wounded, and talk.”
Our wounded. I can see Jubilee just a few meters away, slumped unmoving in the mud. Every muscle in my body wants to run to her, to throw myself down at her side. Suicide, she’d called it, the plan to run across the battle to reach the tower. She got me my chance to stop this war; I can’t risk shattering this fragile balance and let that sacrifice be for nothing.
“Please,” I whisper, and though it carries toward the soldiers in the silence, my eyes are on Jubilee.
“Flynn.” My heart surges up into my throat. It’s Sean. One side of his face is bloody where a laser clipped his ear, and my heart shrinks to see him looking so warlike. Our eyes lock, and despite the distance, I know what’s in his gaze. Blood and betrayal, Fergal’s ghost and Sean’s cutting grief standing between us. “What did that mean? That we turned to the murder of innocents?”
There’s no forgiveness in his tone, but the fact that he’s talking to me at all—the fact that he listened—makes my heart race. It’s the smallest glimmer of hope, like electricity running through me. But before I can respond, a flicker of horror runs through Sean’s features and he takes a step back, turning to find McBride some distance behind him. Sean’s eyes drop to the Gleidel in McBride’s hand, and as their eyes meet, something cracks in my heart.
“You’ve been lied to, all of you.” I harden my voice, make myself stand straighter, moving forward past Jubilee. It’s torture not looking back at her, and I force myself to keep my gaze up, to finish this. I can still see the desperation on her face, the pain, as she stared up at me. Go. “You’ve been manipulated into breaking the ceasefire by a madman.”
McBride’s shaking, the gun at his side trembling with suppressed rage. “No one is going to take the word of a traitor like you.” He’s beyond reason now—I can see it in his jerky movements, hear it in his voice.
“Nobody needs to believe me. They can see it themselves. Hand over your gun, McBride. We’ll check the readout and see how many shots it fired that night.” Because I know, and he knows, that if he refuses to let us see the data on his Gleidel, he’s announcing his own guilt.
A ripple of confusion runs through the crowd, and I cling to that—it means some of them do doubt him. Some of them want to believe me.
McBride’s eyes bore into mine, all the hatred and disgust he’s been trying to hide for years burning openly now. “Avon will rise from the ashes of this war, and you were always too weak to be the spark, Cormac. Doyle and the others couldn’t fight, but they could still serve our cause. They were kindling for the flames, and that was an honor.” His lips creep into a stiff rictus of a smile. “You can still serve, too.”