Somehow, that actually makes things worse.
“Don’t want to put the bluster on the billy,” Caspen tells me in a dialect I can’t place, “but you’ve really done yourself a doozy this time.”
“A what?”
“A doozy. You know.” She gestures unhelpfully. “A bit of a piff-poff.”
“I do not have any idea what you’re saying.”
“Don’t you riot from the lows?”
“I don’t riot from anywhere.”
Avi explains, “She means, don’t you come from a Lower Planet?”
I don’t mean to get defensive, especially since I’m only just meeting Caspen and would hate to start off on the wrong foot with one of myfleetmates—again—but my origin planet is a bit of a sore spot, and I’m nervous over this meeting with Sergeant Forst, and basically overtaxed from spending half a night in a hospital, so I find myself kind of growling, “I still don’t get the question.” At Caspen’s wounded look, I grimace. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just…”
“Tied up in a wheebarn?” Caspen offers.
“Caspen.” Lament comes to the rescue, moving his body slightly between us. “Spare him, all right? It’s been a long night.”
Which has me feeling suddenly light and glowy, like someone poured warm honey down my throat. Caspen gives Lament a lopsided grin. “Anything for the Pirate King.”
Lament shakes his head and gently touches my lower back, urging me through the common room. I’m not even sure he realizes what he’s done, but my legs turn to jelly, a little shiver whooshing the length of my spine. I wonder if Lament can sense this, because he abruptly drops the hand and speeds forward, leaving me feeling somewhat bereft. Which is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous. I scrub a hand down my face, carefully avoid the look Vera is trying to throw me, and start after him.
The sergeant’s office is located at the end of the detachment’s third and final hallway. The corridor’s ceiling is domed, the walls adorned with pictures of former Sixers. As we approach the solid door at the end, Toph tells us in a lowered voice (which is still above normal speaking volume for most people), “You should know the sergeant has summoned the Directors. They’re waiting inside.” I want to ask what that means and why he looks so forlorn about it, but then Avi is pulling open the office door and I have no choice but to give the Sixers a final pained smile before following Lament, Jester, and Vera into the room.
Sergeant Forst’s office is spacious yet empty in a way that feels intimidating, with a desk at one end and floor-to-ceiling windows covering the back wall. The sergeant herself is waiting there behind the desk, and she’s not alone. There are five other people (and one non-person) seated in a row to her left, a mix of men and women and—I think that’s a gurgopipe?(Humanoid, twiggy neck, face frozen in permanent surprise.) The group doesn’t look Legion. They’re dressed more like businesspeople in an array of smart suits and polished loafers. None of them appear happy.
“Do you know,” the sergeant asks as she stands from her chair, “the number of rules you four have broken in the last eight hours?”
Sergeant Forst is one of those women who could be thirty or fifty or anywhere in between. She’s an average height, an average build, with brown hair and brown eyes and a normal face. Basically, she’s the kind of person who looks just sort of… person-like, in a general, nondescript way. When I arrived at the detachment yesterday and she gave me the tour, I might have called her friendly, if not a bit formal. Now, she looks downright severe.
“Jetting off without orders to a no-man’s-planet,” the sergeant continues. “Cutting your signal so we couldn’t radio you. Attacking a sand cephalopod, an endangered species. And you, Mr. Bringer. You’ve destroyed yet another spaceship. Do you enjoy the demolition of Legion property?”
I glance over, but Lament only stands there with his hands behind his back, his expression shut down to nothing.
“I’ve summoned the Directors to help with damage control,” the sergeant says, motioning at the individuals to her left, “but this is beyond even their ability to contain. The whole stunt is making headlines.” She flips on a nearby wall monitor. NewsNet pops up, and we see the current headline scrolling in fat letters across the bottom of the screen:SIXTH GOESAWOLIN LATEST CROSS-GALACTIC STUNT.
“Well?” Sergeant Forst demands. “How do you explain yourselves?”
Lament inhales, summoning the words to lie. I sense Vera beside me, small and quiet, and Jester, who only came to Purvuva because he didn’t want Vera flying alone. I think about the red card on Lament’s file, and how if he gets another, he’ll be stripped of his commission. He’ll be perilously close to losing his place in the Sixth altogether.
The feeling starts in my chest, just like it does when I’ve got my ray gun in my hand. It works its way down my limbs before my mind has a chance to catch up.
Reckless, says the voice of Master Ira in my head.
I know, I think back, right before I blurt, “It’s my fault.”
Lament’s head whips around. “No, that’s not—”
“I’d heard stories about sand cephalopods. I’ve always wanted to see one. I convinced the others to take me. It was my idea.”
I can feel Lament staring. His eyes bore into the side of my face as he says, “What are you—?”
“Mr. Hartman.” The sergeant looks thrown. Clearly, she’d come armed for a different sort of confrontation. “This is… upsetting to hear.”
“I know.” I keep my eyes resolutely ahead. They land on a single framed picture on the desk, the sergeant out of uniform holding a little girl. Her daughter, I’d guess. “I’m sorry.”
