“You are in charge of training Atlanta,” Niko told Talon. “That’ll get you out of here for a while, at least.”
“No,” he said, and shook his head, and then repeated the word again just in case any of this wasn’t clear.
Niko, standing in the doorway of his room (and struggling not to wrinkle her nose at the stale reek from it), just looked at him. Her expression made him feel embarrassed, but he didn’t back down, even though part of him wanted to, very much. Neither he nor his twin had ever been in the habit of contradicting Niko. That was something their mother had drilled into them. You always obeyed the captain, always, always, always.
But his mother was gone and Thorn was gone and so he shook his head and said it just one more time. “No.”
Atlanta, standing behind Niko in the doorway, said, “Captain, he doesn’t need to.”
Her voice was full of discomfort. He could have felt bad about that too. He had initially liked the human girl. She always seemed a little lost ever since the first day he’d seen her, an unexpected arrival. He and Thorn had talked about her and what she must have felt like, to be sent away from everyone you knew and live with strangers.
But now he hated her for being the one who had been there when his brother died, consumed by what Tubal Last had summoned to feed. The sight of it would have killed him, too, but it was unfair beyond belief that he had not been allowed to be there instead of her.
Why did every thought turn back to Thorn, over and over again? Thorn, whose death the girl had seen, when he had not. He felt his lips creep back as though to expose his teeth at the thought and tamped it down.
Niko said, “Actually, he does need to. This is the duty I’m assigning him, to train you further in fighting. You’re sloppy and unschooled and sometimes more a danger to yourself than any opponent.” She looked at Talon. “And I don’t just want the two of you playing warball, mind you. In fact, no warball unless I approve it beforehand.”
There was nothing in all the universe that he wanted to do less than play warball, which would have reminded him unendurably of Thorn with every moment, but somehow that rankled. He was grieving. It was unfair of her to take away one of the things that he loved. Would have loved. If he’d had Thorn to play it with him still.
Niko said, brushing aside his refusal as though he had never spoke it, “Figure out a schedule where you’re training for two stints of an hour and a half each day, at least four hours apart, time-wise. Start her on strength training.” She directed a glance at Atlanta. “You’ve got that fancy body, you might as well maintain it better.”
Atlanta looked indignant. “I maintain myself.”
“You do the minimum, and that’s not enough when you’re eating the sort of meals that Dabry has been dreaming up lately. My crew pulls their weight, so get strong enough to do that too.” Her look at Talon when she said “my crew” made it clear that she would not tolerate having her orders flouted.
He wanted to argue, but the weight of everything settled on his shoulders, pressing him into submission. He muttered, the words barely audible, “All right.”
“Good.” Niko folded her arms and stood there, waiting.
“Now?” he said, and knew he was whining, and didn’t care.
She glanced past him into his messy quarters. “Were you currently otherwise engaged? Cleaning up, perhaps?” He didn’t reply. She went on. “I’ll take that as a no. Thing, prep your warball chamber so they can spar there. You two, I expect you changed and in there working within a quarter hour.”
Atlanta dressed hurriedly, a little excited. She’d missed her relationship with the twins, the closest to her in age on the ship and usually the most good-humored about explaining things. But since Thorn’s death, Talon had refused to speak with anyone except when he had to.
Worry wriggled in the pit of her stomach. What if she couldn’t live up to this task? He was a soldier. She’d been raised in a soft palace life.
Her worry increased when she entered the chamber.
She’d thought she would be happy to see Talon again, but the one she saw was not her friend. This version glared at her from eyes no longer happy-go-lucky, full of enthusiasm, but rather angry and reddened, golden irises almost eclipsed by dark pupils. And she noticed that he had entered some growth spurt lately—he was broader across the shoulders, burlier through the chest, at least in this half form.
When she ventured a smile at him, he did not return it, just eyed her sourly as though trying to find fault with some aspect of her or her attire. But she wore a serviceable ship suit, her hair pulled back with a cord, and bare feet, which had seemed like the most reasonable choice.
He grunted at her. “Stand straighter,” he said. She tried to do so. He nodded and flapped a hand at her. She stood there.
“What are you waiting for?” he said impatiently. “Come at me.”
“I thought we were doing strength training?” She faltered.
“I have decided we will begin with combat and then move to strength training once I have fully assessed you,” he said.
She tried, she really did. But it seemed as though every time she tried to rush at him, he was out of the way and pushing her aside, hard, so she reeled away, and fell, over and over again.
Despite the padding the Thing had provided on the floor, it hurt. She bit her tongue on one fall. Talon’s nose twitched at the scent of blood as it spattered over the floor, but otherwise, he didn’t react. She swallowed copper and tried again, ignoring the throbbing. She’d felt worse.
After a dozen such attempts, he said, “You are not strong enough, you will never be good at fighting. The captain said do strength training, so we’ll do that.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, but deep below the shame and misery of the thought was a trickle of comfort. She was unworthy, and that meant she could, at least, go away and sit and nurse her bruises.
But he snapped, “Push-ups, then, until I tell you to stop,” and began to set her through rounds of exercises, each more grueling than the last. Her face was so wet with sweat that her eyes burned and she could feel muscles complaining in places they never had before. How long would he keep this up, she wondered, and thought that at least if she passed out from it, she’d have a reason to stop.
The moment when she would be found inadequate was inevitable. Why was she even trying? She might as well stop and spare herself all this. But something in her spine resisted that idea, and she found herself struggling onward, trying to breathe into the pain and only half succeeding.
Talon knew he was being unkind, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t overly cruel in how hard he worked the girl, but he was unrelenting.
Well, that was all right. She was part of all the things that had led up to Thorn’s death. He couldn’t get at them, but he had her here and now at his mercy.
Sweat was trickling off her. He could smell its rankness and see the tremble in her shoulders as she did another push-up. How much longer could she keep it up? Already she’d be in pain tomorrow if he didn’t make sure she cooled down and ate and drank the right things afterward. Well, she could learn that for herself. It was the sort of lesson you had to learn that way, or else you wouldn’t remember it.
She was like a baby, an infant. Helpless. If he didn’t help her, maybe she’d learn sooner. Pain could only teach her things.
He took a deep breath, looking away from Atlanta, and swallowed down grief and anger. Pain had taught him nothing. Thorn wouldn’t want his legacy to be pain. His twin would have been surprised, maybe even a little shocked, at what he was doing now. He should stop, let her rest for a bit before going on.
But before he could say anything, Milly was in the room in a flutter of white feathers.
“What are you doing?” she snapped at him. “Are you trying to kill her? Humans are fragile things, not like were-lions.” She wheeled on Atlanta. “You can stop.”
“The captain gave her to me to train,” he protested.
“To train, not to fluffing torture.”
“To make stronger,” he said. “To learn how to fight.”
He was impressed to see that Atlanta had not stopped during this conversation, despite Milly’s directive. He said, “You can stop now, Atlanta.”
She went limp on the decking, simply breathing as her heart hammered in her ears.
Milly planted herself to glare at him. “I’m going to talk to Dabry about this,” she said. “You know better.”
He pulled himself up. “I’ve fought alongside them more times than you have teeth.” He snarled, flashing his canines.
Many creatures would have backed away at that, but the willowy, white-feathered birdwoman didn’t budge. “Do you want to test me, brat?” she said. “I may be newer than you to this troop, but believe me, I’m qualified. Ask your captain.”
He could feel anger clamping down on him. He wanted to turn into a full lion, go into battle mode. Rip her apart with teeth and talons and then scream out his angry victory.
“Try it, pussycat,” she said softly. Two knives glinted in her hands, sprung from nowhere.
The ship said, “I feel that this conversation is not what you should be saying to each other and that there is an interpersonal problem.”
“I feel you should butt out of interpersonal problem-solving,” Milly said.
“Is that what you are doing?”
“Absolutely,” he and Milly said in unison.
Atlanta had crawled to the corner to collapse in a sweaty heap. She opened her eyes and said, “It’s been an hour and a half. I’m going to shower.”
“Meet back here in four hours,” he told her.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Milly said.
“Captain’s orders,” he said to her smugly. The knives had vanished, but her body language, despite the difficulty of reading her expression, was still angry.
“We’ll see about this,” she said and left, footsteps thudding angrily along the corridor.
He realized he hadn’t thought about Thorn for longer than he had in all the time since his twin had died.
It terrified him. Would he forget his brother? He dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups as rapidly as he could.
Every time he exhaled, he pushed himself up and thought about Thorn alive. And every time he inhaled, he let himself fall down into the misery that Thorn was not. Now he was the only one and got all the attention. That might have been nice under other circumstances. But he would have given it all up for his brother.
How could he go on if every day would be like this? He moved faster and faster, trying to push himself into forgetfulness until his shoulders burned and he let himself fall to the floor. And yet there was the thought in his head that he would never see his brother again. It made him want to wail in a way that was shameful and childish. He could not give way to the urge.
But back in his room, holding Thorn’s pillow again, he did.