“Then why?” He reaches out a hand like he’s going to brush back my hair. Stops himself. And then… unstops himself. His fingers are soft against my temple. There’s no more air in the room. “Why are you crying?”
I grip my handheld. “I have a confession.”
“A confession?”
I nod. Swallow. “My mom isn’t dead.”
He’s silent for a long moment. “She’s not?”
“No.” I take a breath. “And there’s something else.”
21
I tell Lament everything.How my mom chose to leave me for reasons I do not and will never understand. How I landed at Master Ira’s School for Children, and the Master took me in, then turned his back on me, too. The truth is ugly, and it makes me feel beastly and unwanted—unwantable. Yet somehow, once I start talking, I can’t stop. The whole story pours from me like wine from a spilled cup, every detail included, every vulnerable memory. Lament, seemingly knowing how tenuous this all is, listens without trying to cut in or defend. He simply lets my words be what they are, my past what it is, and absorbs.
I’m breathless by the time I finish, and more than a little self-conscious. I have no idea what comes next. How do two people move forward after seeing each other laid bare like this? After all their wounds are held to the light?
Lament looks at me in that too-long way of his and says, “Thank you for telling me.”
I study the wall behind him. “I should have told you before.”
“You don’t owe me the truth.”
“I asked you to trust me and then I lied.”
“Trust isn’t something you can just ask for. It’s earned. And I hope”—his eyes seem to grow bluer in the dark—“maybe this means I’ve earned yours?”
It’s the quiet of the room. The way we’re (basically) sitting in bed together. The memory of his story, his scars, how I saw them and let him see mine. Lament’s question is simple, but it’s the way he asks it that touches me, like my trust is something he cares about having. I feel a sort of weightlessness. It’s in my chest, spinning up through my heart. My lifestone is still glowing, the soft green light filtering through my nightshirt.
“Yeah,” I say, voice hoarse. “Yeah, Lament. You have.”
“So.” Lament readjusts his seat. “You saw your mother yesterday. And she saw you. Do you think she came to find you?”
The thought has occurred to me. It seems too great a coincidence that I’d randomly spot Nina Hartman in a crowd like that, even if she’s a Determinist now, and even if I’m Legion. The galaxy is massive—too big to explain the sighting away on chance. But it’salsotoo big to explain away on premeditation, because again, the galaxy is massive. How could Nina have possibly known I’d be on Venthros? Legion missions are classified, meaning civilians don’t have access to our orders in advance of deployment. Anyway, even if Ninadidintend to come for me, what was her purpose?
I can’t help but consider Ran Doc Min’s simulation. We’ve been operating under the assumption that FPS can only predict large events, since the sheer amount of data required for individualized predictions would be next to impossible (not to mention illegal) to collect. Only, there’s Professor Morton’s warning to consider. He knew details about my past as well as specific predictions about my future. So, what if FPS is more advanced than we’d thought? What if Ran Doc Min used his technology to predict I’d be on Venthros and gave that information to my mother?
“I’m not sure what to think,” I say. “I haven’t seen Nina Hartman since I was nine years old. Why would she come for me now? And why let me see her?”
“Maybe she didn’t mean for you to see her,” Lament says. “Maybesheonly meant to findyou.”
I flop onto my back and stare at the smooth ceiling of our shared cubby. The Bargainer clicks and hums with small noises, water draining through its pipes, air vents rotating open, panels creaking as they shift and settle. I voice the question again, the one that has no answer. “But why?”
We spend another two days on Venthros before Lament is cleared to fly home.Time to relax, Avi called it, but it’s hard to enjoy the break with the Youvu Hums watching NewsNet in the background(RANDOCMINRELEASESLATESTPREDICTION:PLANETVENTHROSDOOMED)and my handheld sitting like a weight in my pocket. I tell myself I won’t compulsively check for new messages and fail spectacularly. It becomes a cycle: check handheld, frown, put it away, check again. I’m just marinating in this congealed soup of anxiety and despair, wondering if Master Ira received my message, wondering how long it would conceivably take him to reply if given every possible setback. I waver fromI’m sure he’ll answertoI don’t care if he doestofuck it, fuck everything.
Lament—after catching me eyeballing my empty inbox for the millionth time—holds out his hand and makes agive it heremotion. And it’s a relief, passing him the device. Like all my problems are contained within that tiny screen, and they can just belong to someone else for a while.
This does, however, leave my hands woefully empty. And with nothing else to occupy them, I start fidgeting with my lifestone.
The stone has been glowing almost constantly since the night I told Lament he had my trust. It’s done this before, lit up at random moments, but it’s never been so persistent. The other Sixers have noticed (how could they not?), but when they ask about it, my reply is tepid. “I don’t know why it’s doing that.” And that’s true. I don’tknow.
But I have some guesses.
My eyes find Lament across the room. He’s currently leaning againstthe doorjamb between the command center and The Bargainer’s kitchen, frowning at something Avi is saying (“Please let me dye your hair, it’s like a canvasbeggingfor color.”). Morning sunlight filters through the windows, casting the tips of his eyelashes blond, reflecting the high crest of his cheekbones. He’s in a fresh set of whites, but he’s left his collar undone, and the bare hollow of his throat is absurdly suggestive.
Jester pauses on his way past me and notices where I’m looking. He shakes his head.I won’t tell Vera.
I widen my eyes innocently. “Tell Vera what?”
