PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
PALLAS STATION
478.2.6.02
Something trickled down my upper lip, and I clamped my mouth shut while I unplugged Lorik’s drone. Since I could not control it, allowing it to power up would endanger others. It was disconnected when James extended his hand. I surrendered the coils and shifted away without raising my head. The others should not be given additional cause to worry. If my nose bled, it bled. There would be nothing anyone could do unless I removed my helmet, and I had promised Zhen, Kyleigh, and James that I would not.
While James finished packing the bag, I pushed myself to my feet. I faltered, and Zhen appeared and caught my elbow. Without meaning to do so, I met her eyes.
Her gaze flickered to my upper lip, and she frowned, then tapped her helmet. Very slowly, almost so slowly that I did not understand, I saw her say, “Turn it on.”
Shaking my head brought a surge of vertigo. She anchored me, then pointed to my wrist and held out her hand, but I folded my arms against my chest.
James lifted the overstuffed chair and settled it against the wall, where the desk blocked my view of Lorik’s drone, and Zhen and Kyleigh guided me over to it. Dust ascended in faint puffs when I lowered myself onto voluminous cushions, even though I merely sat on the edge, waiting, clutching my wrist lest someone attempt to reactivate my communications link.
As clearly as VVR, my mind replayed the previous moments. Lars doubling over, the lamp shattering, the drone’s tendrils stretching past me. Again and again.
My attention snagged on the shattered lamp. Vivid yellow glaze sandwiched shards of bone-white ceramic. Broken. Beyond repair. Discouragement grabbed at me, and I surreptitiously tapped my thigh.
Zhen pivoted from the door, a scowl on her face. I looked away.
Eventually, my respiration slowed, and I fell back against the cushions. Fatigue gathered me in invisible tendrils, and I slumped sideways, my eyes flickering open and drifting shut, making time uneven.
A sudden flurry of movement jarred me upright. Daniel entered something on the panel, and the door swung open. Marines poured into the room. A hover gurney eased toward the chaise lounge where Lars rested, and he scooted awkwardly onto the flat cushions. Once he was settled, the medic tightened the safety straps, and another marine tucked Lars’s weapon into the bed’s undercarriage. James left Kyleigh’s side to meet another man in grey-and-black armor. Together, they wove through the sea of marine blue at the doorway. I dropped my gaze.
Familiar black boots entered my line of sight, halting on the carpet’s twined flowers and geometric designs. When I did not stand, Nate knelt in front of me. I kept my eyes on my gloves’ thin, black ribbing rather than admitting how I had erred.
He switched over to his external communication unit, and I did not resist when he turned my arm wrist up and enabled my own. Sound resumed—the faint hum of microantigravity devices, the clatter of weapons against armor, the muffled thuds of footfalls on the thick carpet—but since everyone used the communications links, the absence of conversation was loud.
“Hey.” Nate’s speaker combined with my helmet’s reception to make his tenor slightly tinny, slightly distant, but it was still his own. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
The gentleness in his voice brought my head up. His eyes roamed my face, lingering for a second at what must have been the dried traces from another nosebleed.
I whispered, “I am looking.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “How’re you holding up?”
“Nate—I cannot . . .” I glanced over at the gurney, where Lars held one arm tightly across his chest as the marine medic flashed a light in his eyes. My inclination to ask who had shot at us was ridiculous. The marines would not, and the roaches did not bear arms. That left Skip, the knife-man, and their accomplices—the ones who had injected Lorik, Freddie, and me with the virus. All I said was, “Lars is injured.”
He grimaced. “Yeah, but the armor did its job. Max or Williams will check him out once we get back. Probably some nasty bruising, maybe a cracked rib. Not that being shot is particularly fun, but he’ll be fine.”
Concern momentarily diverted me. “Have you been shot?”
“Not recently.” Nate rapped his knuckles on his armored suit. “This stuff might not do a lot of good when a two-meter bug is chewing on you, but in general, it keeps you alive around humans. He’ll be fine. It’ll make a nice story to not tell his family when we get back.”
His statement made no sense.
“I brought this on them, Nathaniel,” I said, clarifying neither antecedent. “I could not even activate Lorik’s drone.”
“So the drone doesn’t work, which is a topic for later, but they chose to come with you.”
“At my instigation.”
“At Jackson’s.” A muscle in his jaw ticced. “Believe me, I’ll be talking to a couple people about that later.”
“Those marines . . .” I closed my eyes for the count of three seconds, not wanting to hear the worst, but needing to know. “Do they live?”
He nodded. “Max and Williams have both men stabilized and dosed up pretty well. Lytwin took a nasty bite through his armor. Lost his leg and nearly bled out. The other—”
“Patterson,” I interrupted, feeling compelled to name him as well, as if doing so granted him a closer hold to life.
“He’s better off, but they’re both running high fevers.”
“Max and Kyleigh need that equipment.” My hands balled into fists. “But I could not control the drone.”
“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault”—his green eyes held mine—“not unless you’re a roach. Or you’ve been designing bioweapons in your spare time.”
“I understand as much, but Nate, how can I be of use when I need help walking a short distance? When I struggle to recall a simple sequence?” I rambled on, and he listened to my incoherent explanation about my weakness, my uselessness, my inability to carry out the reactivation of a drone, my difficulty concentrating.
His forehead creased, and when I finished, he held up a hand. “We’re all doing our best, and you’re going above and beyond. As to the marines, Max and Williams are both working on a treatment. Whatever I think of Clarkson as a human being, she has a stellar reputation as a scientist, and she and her crew are hammering away at the problem with all the resources Thalassa has available. I’m going to choose to hope this time.”
The talkative Recorder’s statement from the previous ten-day reverberated in my heart: While I realize the thread is thin, I hold to hope.
How did one hold to a thread?
Nate’s tone gentled. “You need rest, and this doesn’t qualify.” When I did not respond, he gently lifted my head until my eyes met his. “You’ve got that virus swimming in your veins, and while I’m thankful you’re able to be up and walking, you need to heal before you go charging around to save the system by fighting off viruses, drones, roaches, and genocidal humans.”
“Nate, I cannot do nothing when people are at risk.”
“I know.” His expression softened. “And that’s one of the reasons I love you.”
His words washed over me, scrubbing away some of the fear that gathered in the recesses of my heart, but I could not summon my own voice to respond.
Nate slid his fingers between mine. “Come on. There’s another gurney waiting in the hall. Let’s get you a ride out of here.”