“It’s still here,” I interrupt as I roll the capsule onto its side with an enormous heave. “Just like we thought. It’s trapped in a heat collector.”
“You’re inside the volcano? Keller,what?” He’s yelling. Actually yelling. “You’ll die. Get out of there. What are you—? Are youseriously—? You don’t have to do this.” I think he might be crying. “The fight’s over. We won. You can come back.”
That startles me. “You found the neutralizer?”
“No, I just meant—I didn’t mean…”
“You escaped the ship,” I clarify, sinking again. “But the Venthrothians are still in danger.”
He makes another rough noise. “We tried our best. We did, okay? Butthe Determinists are too many steps ahead. I’m sorry, Iam, but we’re out of options here.”
I turn my eyes back to the heat collector. “No, we’re not.”
“No. No, Keller—”
“The eruption is in less than one minute.”
“You’lldie.”
“I should have told you this sooner.” I get the collector on its side and start to roll it. The volcanic lava is starting to froth. My ears pop. “Lament, you’re everything, okay? You’re the smartest person I know, and selfless and driven and so fucking beautiful. Like, it’s unfair how beautiful you are. And I know you get scared sometimes, and it’s hard for you to let others in, but you letmein, and—” I break off. He’s definitely crying now, and shit, I am, too. “I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you as a partner. But I was. So lucky.”
“Keller.” His voice is a wreck. “What do I have to say to make you come back? Just tell me.” His words are choked, coughing, drowning in his own sobs. “Whatever it is, whatever I have to do, please…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please—”
“There’s just one more thing I want to… I should have said this a long time ago, but Lament, I—”
39
LAMENT
I should have saidthis a long time ago, but Lament, I—
His voice has been on repeat in my head since the moment the signal was lost. Keller’s last words to me, incomplete.
I stand in my new shared room on Skyhub. My old room—and most of Detachment 94—is gone. Destroyed. It happened during a firefight between one side of the Legion, the good side, headed by Beckly Van and the Fifty- Seventh, and the Legionnaires who were secretly working for the Determinists. I don’t know the details. I haven’t asked. All I know is that Sergeant Forst has been removed from her position and the Sixth is temporarily sharing a detachment with the Fifty-Seventh until our unit can be rebuilt.
This room looks just like every other dormitory on Skyhub. There’s a narrow cot, a couch, a small kitchen, a dresser. I watch my hands move in the single retractable mirror as I pull on my blacks piece by piece: trousers, undershirt, waistcoat, jacket. Loafers instead of boots. No jewelry, it was never my thing. Unless you count the lifestone.
It stopped glowing shortly after the volcano erupted. I knew, then.
I haven’t worn my blacks since Bast’s funeral. That day started a lot like this one. Dressing alone in my room. Watching my hands move in the mirror, feeling like they belonged to someone else. That time, last time, when I emerged to meet the others, Vera was already crying. She scrubbed her eyes furiously at the sight of me, like she didn’t want me to notice her tears. She probably thought she needed to put on a brave face. To hold it together so I could come undone. Vera didn’t yet realize that the opposite was happening—I was a box with the lid nailed on. An insect hardened in amber.
Black suits you,Vera had told me in an effort to pretend she wasn’t crying.Our whites wash you out, but black is your color.
I hate it, a little, that she’s right. Here in this borrowed room before this borrowed mirror, the black fabric looks crisp against my skin. It softens the bruises under my eyes, makes my frame look slim rather than slight. Still, I wonder if Vera realized what she was saying. That I’m someone suited for mourning.
I did it with Bast, and I thought I’d never survive it.
I’ll do it with Keller, and I’m certain I won’t.
My whites lie in a pile at my feet. I stare at them. And then I keep staring, because I’m in no hurry. I imagine I’ve vanished from the universe—justpoofed into oblivion—and this is all that’s left of me: a crumpled arrangement of clothes where there once stood a man.
When people ask, I say I’m doing fine. Hanging in there. Getting by. But I keep checking my handheld like I expect there to be a message from him. I catch myself watching the door like I’m waiting for him to walk through it.
I step over the pile of whites on my way out. It’s not like me to leave clothing strewn about, but what’s the point of keeping things tidy? What’s the point of anything? The old Lament would be horrified, but I don’t want to be like my old self. I want nothing to do with anyone who once knew Keller, even if that person is me. I’d step out of my skin like a hatched moth if I could, find the nearest light and beat myself against it. That would be a relief, I think: the pain of missing him replaced by simple, blank, physical pain.
