“Brawny?”
“One of my old Academy mates.”
“I see,” says Lament, in a way that makes it clear he certainly does not see.
“Brawny wasn’t his real name. We only called him that because, you know. All brawn, no brain.”
Lament blinks. And then helaughs. An honest to stars, full-throated laugh that makes me flush with unexpected pleasure. I feel like I’ve been struck, caught in the surprising image of Lament when he’s amused, the way his hair falls around his face, the movement of the muscles in his neck…
This is bad.
This is very bad.
“You,” he finally breathes, “are not what I was expecting.”
I can’t look at him, but I can’t look away, either. I’m flailing, and I’m sure my face is bright red, and if I don’t get it togetherright now, he’s going to notice.
“Regardless,” I say in the breeziest voice I can muster, fixing my gaze on some middle distance that isn’t him, “I don’t see how you’re going to do much investigating right now. They’ve barred us from non-sanctioned spaceflights. Sergeant Forst says they’ve activated our spacecrafts’ DNA monitors, meaning the crafts will literally stop us from leaving without orders.”
Lament’s smile changes, turning slightly devilish, and—oh. The laughter was one thing, but the smile isworse.
He says, “There’s something I want to show you.”
11
Ten minutes later (AfterI’ve swapped my pajamas for something a little less bedtime-y), we’re stepping off the elevator onto the Sixth’s flight deck. Lament’s movements are purposeful—eager, even—as he guides us across the main floor into an enclosed workroom, which is large and crammed with stuff. There are tools hanging on the wall (arranged in order of size), a worktable covered in pens and paper diagrams (set at right angles), and a bunch of cardboard boxes (neatly stacked and meticulously labeled). It looks like a hoarder met a neat freak and opened a repair shop. What draws my eye most, though, isn’t the workroom’s scrupulous organization, but rather a spacecraft-size lump at its center, which is hidden under a tarp. Lament pulls the cover away to reveal a fixed-wing fighter craft.
What used to be a fighter craft.
The body is completely mangled. The left wing is smashed like a soda can, the boosters burned to cinders, power packs hanging sadly by their cords. Even the gun slot (which looks about the right size to fit a Halobringer) is crushed, the gun missing. I walk around the spacecraft, repressing the urge to whistle. The right side is slightly more intact, and it gives me an idea of what this bird used to look like: sleek and beautiful, with a narrownose and a long frame, its wings arched like a hawk on a dive. Even more stunning is the craft’s color, which isn’t the usual silver or black like most of the Legion’s other flyers, but a shimmering emerald green.
I tap the wing. The sound rings pure.
My brows fly up. “Lament.”
He’s been watching me, gauging my reaction in a way that makes me feel both jumpy and a little bit greedy. “Yes?”
“Want to tell me why you’ve got a spacecraft made of zurillium—as in,lifestonezurillium—hidden in your workshop?”
The wing is still ringing. I touch the metal to cut the vibration, then instantly wish I hadn’t. The sound was soothing. Ethereal. A sound you hear with your entire body, skin and lungs and heart and fingers.
“Her name,” Lament says in reply, “is Moon Dancer.”
I continue my slow perusal around Moon Dancer’s body, taking in more details: the landing gear, the connection pipes, the tail and delta wings. There’s a backup engine, which looks like it might be vacuum-powered, and two interior seats, one for a pilot and one for a gunner. These, too, are crushed, the metal walls of the nose and side pushed roughly inward. Lament didn’t answer my earlier question about the origin of this spacecraft, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. “This is the flyer you were in,” I say, “the day Bast died.”
Lament gives a single nod.
I take a few steps back, setting my hands on my hips and trying to wrap my head around it. Lament was here. He was in this craft when it went down, in that seat that’s hardly even still a seat—just ripped leather and stuffing and no room at all—and somehow he survived. I was skeptical when Vera first told me the story, butseeingthe damage, seeing what’s left…
“She’s a custom build,” Lament explains. “Sized to our measurements. The gun was made to order. Bast was left-handed, so all the interior controls are flipped.”
“The Legion really doesn’t hold back, do they? She must have cost a fortune.”
“She was a gift from Bast’s family, actually.”
I shoot him a look. “Seriously?”
“The Vinicchis can swing it.”
