I resent that, and I wonder if it’s wrong of me.
The Academy’s grounds are beautiful. It’s lush here, thick with green growth, everything bathed in sunlight. The service is massive. It feels like half the galaxy has come to pay their respects.
I resent that, too, and it’s definitely wrong of me.
I’ve been given a seat in the front row, right up near the presenter’s podium. I didn’t want this seat, but when the coordinator stuck out her hand and guided me front and center, I couldn’t think of how to protest. Now, as I sit here listening to one of Keller’s old Academy officers tell a story about the first time he saw Keller shoot, I squirm. My neck itches. I feel the weight of thousands of eyes behind me, watching me, but I don’t want anyone to look at my face and see the truth behind my expression, except Keller. And he’s dead.
The last five days have been like this, periods of numbness marked by bright bursts of grief. I’ll spend all afternoon trying to blot out any memory of Keller, only to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, terrified the effort might actually be working. I’ll scramble for the first picture of him that comes to mind, just to prove he’s there, that some part of him still lives in me. There’s always about three seconds of pure, unfilteredhappiness before the pain comes roaring back. It’s exhausting, all this back and forth. Like trying to breathe mud.
The service goes smoothly, I think. I don’t listen to most of it. Just tip my head back and stare at the sky and try to remember Keller without actually feeling the memories. I still have his letter in my pocket. His lifestone hangs around my neck.
After the final speaker gives a dry-eyed yet heartfelt eulogy, everyone gets up. For a moment, I imagine I see Ran Doc Min in the crowd. My pulse lurches, and I stand too quickly, but no—the Determinist leader was killed in battle on the A-Line. I saw his body, and Trey Morton’s, and Nina’s. Their force field eventually wore away, and when it cracked, the power ricocheted inward, killing its occupants in a single, deadly burst of power. Half of the Determinists were shocked to discover their leader was a fraud. The other half don’t believe it at all. They’re saying it’s all some huge conspiracy, that my fleet made the whole story up.
I don’t care what they think.
I don’t care about much anymore, really.
As the crowd begins to mingle—Legion members and Keller’s old Academy officers and random Venthrothians all expounding upon the gunner’s selfless sacrifice—Toph and Avi place themselves on either side of me. I hardly even notice what they’re doing at first, except then several reporters try to approach me, and Toph and Avi warn them away. Most people take the hint pretty quickly, but when one reporter looks like he might argue, Toph makes his threat directly: “Say another word, and I’ll break your arm.”
It reminds me of the time Keller made that stupid joke about breaking a reporter’s kneecaps. That had been a hard day for me. Sergeant Forst had been hounding me to start reversing my red card, my anxiety was through the roof, and then all those newspeople assaulted me out of nowhere. But Keller had come. It was the first time I’d ever seen him angry. Me? I’m angry all the time. At Bast for dying, at the Legion and Sergeant Forst for their incompetence, and yes, even at Keller. He had a way of gettingunder your skin. Always so cheerful. So up for anything. Kind and good-hearted. It was irritating as hell. But then he showed up in a crowd of reporters with all his height and strength and ferocious energy. I had to do a double take, because where had that come from? He got me out of the mob, then started cracking jokes, like he knew it was the one thing that would help me breathe again. None of the other Sixers would have dared tried humor on me in a moment like that. They know me too well. But I guess Keller knew me better.
I think I loved him, even then.
It’s only been five days. Five measly, horrible days. That number is going to ruin me. I’ve suffered a lifetime’s worth of grief already. How am I supposed to make it five more days? Or even one more? How am I supposed to wake up again and again every morning for the rest of my life and remember that Keller is gone?
“If I may,” says a voice from behind, “I’d like to talk to him.”
I turn to see Master Ira speaking to Toph and Avi. Toph crosses his grizzly arms. “Lament doesn’t want to speak to anyone right now.”
The Master doesn’t seem intimidated by the giant mechanic. He leans around Toph and meets my eye. “He gave you something.”
“What?” I ask without consciously deciding to speak. My voice is hoarse like I’ve been crying. Which—shit. Have I been?
“Something important.”
I used to contemplate Master Ira, back when I still cared to contemplate things. He’s a First Master of the Order. I’m not sure Keller ever realized that, or even knew what it means. Master Ira didn’t just train on Mount Kilmon for one eruption cycle—he chose to stay for two. That means he spent eighteen years on the volcano, surviving an entire eruption and living through to the next. It’s why he wears the topknot. And, perhaps, why he’s enlightened.
I spotted it immediately. Anyone could, if they knew what to look for. It’s in the man’s eyes, his manner of speech, the general aura of his presence. He’s operating on a different conscious level than most of us. Whenhe speaks, he intends to help and guide on an utterly selfless level, because he has nofeelingof self. And he almost certainly never lies.
The Master says, “It means something, that he gave you that.”
I don’t know if the Master is talking about Keller’s lifestone, the letter, or something else. I should probably ask. I should take note of a cryptic clue bestowed by an enlightened Master. But I’m remembering how Keller’s skin used to contrast against my own. His hair was brown and his eyes were brown and I was an asshole to him the first time we met. He should have quit the Sixth on the spot, and at first I wished he would, only then I was so thankful he didn’t.
Toph and Avi are looking between Master Ira and me like they’re not sure whether we’re having a meaningful moment or if the Master is crossing a line and needs to be bodily removed. In the end, the Master merely gives a sad, tight-lipped smile and walks away.
He probably thinks I’m a lost cause.
He’s probably right.
“Where are you going?” Vera asks.
We’re standing on the flight deck located inside the Academy’s spaceport, a large open-air arena where today’s visitors have parked their spacecraft. The memorial service is over, everyone slowly migrating inside the school’s old-world-style dining hall for snacks and refreshments. The sun is bright in my eyes; Uru’s hills roll in the distance.
“Back to the detachment,” I reply, unlocking Moon Dancer’s cockpit.
“So soon?” She worries her lip. She’s been doing that a lot lately. “You don’t want to stay for Keller’s reception?”
“It’s notKeller’sreception.”
