His footsteps move past me, soft in the thick springy bits of leaf coating the forest floor. I can almost smell him, something sharp and different behind the assault of green smells I’m not used to.
“If you’re not hungry,” he adds, “then I suggest we get moving.”
“What were your views of the planet at that stage?”
“Obviously it was in the advanced stages of terraforming. We were waiting for rescue teams to arrive.”
“What made you so sure they’d come?”
“Why spend the resources to terraform a planet if you’re not going to profit from the colonies? We were sure the settlers would have seen the Icarus crash, and somebody would be along to investigate.”
“Your key concerns at that stage?”
“Well, Miss LaRoux had a party she didn’t want to miss, and I—”
“Major, you don’t seem to understand the seriousness of your situation.”
“Sure I do. What the hell do you think our key concerns were?”
NINE
TARVER
THE SUN’S SLANTING THROUGH the trees by the time we get moving. I’m aching, covered in bruises from the dozens of times I was thrown against my straps as our pod screamed in to land. My grab bag’s on my back, stuffed with everything I could find use for in the pod’s lockers—ration bars, the blanket, a pathetically inadequate first-aid kit, a length of spare cable, and a mechanic’s suit I haven’t yet dared suggest Miss LaRoux substitute for her totally impractical dress. My silver photo case, my battered notebook full of half-written poems. The canteen, with the built-in water filter we’ll need so badly now. For better or worse, we’re walking, following a creek through the forest.
I’m walking, anyway. She’s hobbling along, grabbing trees for support when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s still clinging to the idea that she’s fine, that this is all simply some horrible inconvenience, and her regular life is going to resume at any moment. God forbid she drop her airs and graces for five minutes. If she’d just accept some damned help, we’d be moving a lot more quickly.
At this rate, we’re not going to have to worry about the owner of the big paw prints—though I wish I knew what left them—or the risk of injury or starvation. We’re going to die of old age before we make it a klick.
We’re on a deadline, and that knowledge drums through me like a pulse. If we can’t find a colony, we’re going to have to get to the wreck as quickly as we can.
Our pod will just be one of a thousand pieces of wreckage strewn through the forest, with nothing about it to show there are survivors nearby. And even if they do recognize it as a downed escape pod, there’s nothing to distinguish it from those that fell still attached to the Icarus. Nothing to say, We’re alive, come get us. We can’t rig up a smoke signal, because all around us are chunks of debris sending up columns of black smoke like an endless procession of funeral pyres.
The only place we can guarantee we’ll be found is at the wreck. That’s where the rescue crews will go, looking for survivors and salvage. That’s where they’ll set up their base of operations.
We have days of walking ahead of us. I don’t think she realizes how deceiving vast distances can be—but if she knew it’d be a week or more, I’m not sure I could get her moving at all. And I can’t afford to waste a moment. If we’re too slow, depending on whether they’re finding other survivors, they could pull out before we even arrive. I could make better time on my own, but if I leave her behind, I’m not sure she’d survive until I make it back.
It’s only through an exhausting combination of frequent rests and liberal insults that we make it through the next few hours. I could tell myself that I’m doing it because she’ll get back to her feet just to spite me—but the truth is, I really just want to piss her off. Keeping her moving is a bonus. I’m starting to think we might be able to make some progress when I hear a particularly loud gasp for breath.
I pause, staring ahead. It looks the same in front as behind, the same behind as to the sides. Uneven ground, underbrush with burs and scrub to catch at you, leaf litter, and straight, even tree trunks, like they were laid out with a laser sight. Slow breath in, slow breath out, then I turn.
She’s standing still again, leaning against a tree for support. I know she’s struggling, but does she have to stop every fifteen minutes? I open my mouth to try a new method of prodding her onward, but then I see her face—twisted with pain, not anger.
“How are your shoes?” I ask.
She swallows, regaining enough composure to scowl at me. “My shoes are fine.”
I consider the heels I saw slide through the metal grating on the pod’s floor. I know she’s lying, and she knows I know.
“Well,” I reply, using the calm tone I know gets under her skin. I wish I was noble enough not to enjoy it, but I came to terms with my lack of nobility long ago. “Way I see it, we have two options. Either I can take a look at your feet and try to patch them up a little for walking, or you can press on, descend into agony, get blisters, bleed, contract an infection, lose anything from a toe to your life, and end up being too slow for either of us to reach a colony or the wreck before we starve. Which do you fancy, Miss LaRoux?”
She shivers, looking away and wrapping her arms around her middle, squeezing herself tight. “Is this what you did on Patron? Terrorized them all with graphic threats?”
Kill me. She’s acting like I offered to shoot her, instead of telling her the truth. “Call me unsophisticated, Miss LaRoux, but it works.” I gesture toward a fallen tree, and she reluctantly sits.
Her feet are a mess, and I have to bite back a hiss when I see them. The straps have rubbed her skin raw, and her toes are puffy with blisters. The skin’s red and shiny, and there’ll be blood sooner, not later. Both her ankles are swollen.
Luckily for me, she’s busy staring into space, as though she’s too embarrassed to look at her own feet. That’s good, because I’m pretty sure she’s not going to like what comes next. I’m gentle as I slide the little straps through the buckles, unthreading the shoes and easing them off. I turn them over in my hands—such delicate things, probably worth a month’s pay each—and snap the heels off.
She looks down to see what I’m doing and gasps, one hand lifting to cover her mouth. But in whatever passes for reality for her, even she must see the shoes have done their duty. She’s silent as I hunt through the first-aid kit, carefully wrapping and taping the worst parts of her feet. In the end I have to let out the straps, and fasten the newly flat shoes around her swollen feet as best I can.
I offer her my hands, and she lets me help her to her feet. She does this without a groan, without a whimper. I’m not sure I could’ve made it this far on feet that badly torn up. Lilac LaRoux’s handled a forced march with more determination than some of the recruits I’ve taken out in the last couple of years, even if she seems to be doing it out of spite more than anything else.
I give her hands a squeeze. “There, see? When you get home, all the girls on Corinth will be dying for heelless high heels. I know you know how to set a trend.”
And there it is, against all hope, like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. The smallest hint of a smile.
“Did you have any goal other than reaching the crash site?”
“You make it sound as though I conspired to get myself landed on the planet.”
“And why would you do that?”
“That’s my point. We wanted nothing more than to get out of there.”
“Very well. What happened next?”
TEN
LILAC
I’M TOO OUT OF BREATH TO TALK and walk at the same time. Major Merendsen keeps upping the pace, so I’m forced to pant and struggle along behind him, with very little opportunity for complaint. Eventually, after the fifth or sixth time that I’ve tripped over a low-lying root, I let gravity finish its work and claim me. I hit the ground harder than I’d like, but I’m too tired to care.
Ahead of me his footsteps come to a halt. There’s a long, long silence before he speaks. “Take a break. Rest your feet, have some water. Let’s move again in fifteen minutes.”
From somewhere I find the energy to push myself up on my arms. My legs are made of lead, and each movement rubs the straps of my shoes against raw skin despite the tape. I can’t help but wonder how long it will take the blisters and calluses on my feet to fade when we’re rescued. How soon will I be able to wear proper shoes again without displaying my battle scars?
He’s standing some distance away, not even winded. Does he have to rub it in, how easy this is for him? I’m determined not to give him the satisfaction of pitying me. I’ll show him how much a LaRoux can handle.
For all I know, there are rescue craft headed for our pod’s crash site as we speak, but because of his idiocy, we’re out in the middle of the forest instead of somewhere they might see us.
A tiny voice at the back of my mind tries to point out how much better suited for this situation he is than I am—how much more he knows. But I’m tired of being weak. I’m tired of being led. I’m tired of having this soldier decide my every step. I’m Lilac LaRoux.
“Major, we need to rethink our plan.” I try to keep my voice even, but I’m not doing a very good job. “The Icarus crashed behind a mountain range. There’s no way we can make this sort of trek. I know it worked for you on Patron, but you had a whole team of soldiers and field researchers there. Just because it worked once doesn’t mean it’s the solution now. We can do something to make the pod more visible.”
“There’s nothing we can do that will guarantee us anything,” he replies, shaking his head in quick dismissal. “We can be sure there’ll be rescue craft at the wreck site.”
“If we make it there,” I snap. “We have to go back, it’s our best hope.”
“I prefer to make my own hope,” he snaps right back, wheeling around to look me up and down, as though he finds me wanting. “Listen, I can’t drag your ass through the forest for you. You have to work with me.”
“I’d thank you not to do anything at all with my ass,” I reply, glaring at him. “You’re not the lord and master of this planet, and you’re not the lord and master of me. My opinion is as valid as yours!”
“Are we going to discuss every single step we take?” I’ve reduced him to a frustrated roar, but there’s no lick of satisfaction in response—I’m too furious myself. This stupid, arrogant boy. How old is he? He can’t be more than a couple of years older than me, yet he acts like he’s got a lifetime of experience just because he liberated one tiny outpost once. A one-trick pony with a chest full of medals.
“Are you going to listen to reason, Major?”
“If that’s what you call reason, then hell, no.”
“No!” I echo him in frustration. “That’s all you ever say—no, you can’t rest again, no, we have to keep moving uphill, no, you can’t use the filtered water for bathing.”