“I’m not sure how that’s better.”
“Not tips on other fleet members,” he grumbles. “I mean, tips about galaxy news. Riots, failures in the Grid, that kind of thing. Anyway, it doesn’t always work. Sometimes reporters still try to share stories about me. When that happens, Bast always—” He breaks off, blinking up at the wires.
“He’d always what?” I’m not sure if it’s the right time to joke, but I hate the way Lament looks right now. Like he’s been shaken from a dream. “Break their kneecaps?”
Lament glances at me. “Something like that.” His gaze drops to my chest. “Is that a lifestone?”
My hand flies to the object hidden under my flight jacket. “No. What? Why would you think—?”
“It’s glowing.”
I startle and look downward and—crap. He’s right. A faint green light throbs through the white fabric of my jacket. “Oh, this? No, this is just… an old family relic.”
“Lifestonesareold family relics.”
“Well, this is a different kind of old family relic.”
Lament raises his brows.
Most people know the story behind lifestones. According to legend, they were mined during the era of Ecnatis. Some say Ecnatis was a man, others a god, but he’s widely regarded as the founder of our galaxy. Roughly fifteen billion years ago, he discovered (or created, depending on the teller) the Seven Suns. From those suns sprang forth his seven sons (either a terrible play on words or the actual origin of the termson), each of whom presented Ecnatis with a gift. The eldest brought Ecnatis a wrathsword (to kill his enemies), the next brought him a grimcloak (to summon death), and so on, until his youngest—a dreamy boy named Thepatas—presented him with a lifestone. It was the only gift not meant for destruction. Rather, if you give your lifestone to someone you love, it’s like giving them a part of your soul, and it can save them in times of peril.
What is this?Ecnatis famously boomed.Why would I want to give my soul to another?
Love is about sacrifice,replied Thepatas.It is stronger when it is shared.
My lifestone was a gift from my mother. At the children’s home, I used to imagine the necklace was a promise of sorts, a sign she’d one day return for me. The stone itself is small—no larger than my thumbnail—and shaped like a teardrop, smooth at the belly and pointed on top. I used to sit in my room at Master Ira’s school with my eyes closed, squeezing thegem in my palm like some sort of talisman.She’s coming for me,I’d think.She knows I’m here, and she’s coming back.
By the time I was a teenager, I’d outgrown those kinds of fantasies. And it didn’t sting so much anymore, really, because I had Master Ira, and my own room at the children’s home, and the other kids who—though none of them ever stayed long—felt like a ragtag kind of family.
And yet… even years later, I couldn’t quite find the strength to leave the stone behind. All lifestones are said to come from Thepatas’s original gift, whittled into smaller and smaller pieces over time. Owning one is like owning a piece of ancient history. Also, regardless of their magical life-protecting properties (which, I don’t know, I think there might be something to that), lifestones are made of zurillium, which is really valuable. But it’d be impossible to explain the stone to Lament without explaining everything, and I am obviously not explaining everything.
“You hungry?” I ask.
If Lament recognizes my blatant change of subject, he doesn’t let on. “Sure.”
“You bring any PPMs?”
His usual stiffness returns. “Of course. It’s part of the checklist.”
“Oh, well, if it’s part of the checklist.”
“They’re in the pilot’s slot. Behind the seat.”
Standard PPMs (Pre-Packaged Meals) are mostly crap, except everyone knows if you go for the one with the tuna sandwich it comes with a biscuit that’s to die for. At the Academy, we used to barter with each other for extras or use them as stakes in bets. They’re not really biscuits—I don’t know why the manufacturers call them that—but more like fudgy brownies. They even come wrapped in these little containers to protect them from being smushed, which is more than I can say for the rest of the meal.
I pop open the brown PPM box and rummage past the tuna sandwich, dried fruit, and shrink-wrapped protein bar to get to the biscuit-brownie, which I tear into with my teeth. I’m not usually a dessert-first kind of guy, butI’m stranded on a foreign planet, and if I’m going to die here, I’d like it to be in brownie-induced bliss.
By this point, Lament has pulled himself out from under the skimmer and is watching me inhale my dessert with mild dismay. I’m almost down to my last bite when I notice he’s chosen the vegan PPM, which, seriously? No sane person ever chooses the vegan one. Not necessarily because of the vegan thing (though I could never) but because that PPM doesn’t even come with dessert. Just a log of dried zucchini and a knuckle of hard bread. It’s the ultimate form of self-deprivation.
“I saw another tuna one in there,” I offer.
“It’s okay.”
“Are you vegan?”
“No.” He tears off a chunk of bread. “I mean, sometimes.”
“What do you mean, sometimes?”
