Endgame

Before Farah can respond, the first volunteers enter the clinic. They break into groups of five, forming lines before us. I’m ready with my hypo for the first shot.

“There will be seven injections,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear me. “On the last day, we’ll find out if the treatment worked.”

“What if it doesn’t?” the woman before me asks, rubbing her arm.

I glance at Farah. Surely the news will sound better coming from her. She has an indefinable quality, along with her rare beauty, that combines to make her captivating. Add those to her kindness, and she’s damn near irresistible.

“When the cure fails,” Farah says gently, “all our repressed rage rushes in at once. It drives us mad.”

“Can it be fixed?”

She shakes her head gravely. “No. There is actual damage to higher neural functions. All that remains is the urge to kill.”

“So you’ll put us down,” a man says.

It’s the cleanest solution. Adaptive physiology makes it difficult to devise treatments for the La’heng, and since they’re not a wealthy people, medical companies have no motivation to help them. Which is wrong, but it’s how the universe operates.

The resistance lacks the resources to run an insane asylum. Volunteers in the clinic seem to realize as much, and they fall quiet, waiting. No more hard questions. As I work, I try not to remember that one or two of these people will die a week from today. They all wear somber looks as they move in and out of the line, as if they’re aware of the same thing.

As Farah requested, Loras sends them in waves. Two hours later, we finish the first round of injections. Only six more days until we find out who lives and dies. That leaves me feeling grim. So I murmur something to Farah and head out into the crisp dusk. Sunset in the mountains is dramatic; the light drops away with little notice. One moment the sky is bright, then the ground drowns in shadows.

I find Vel working on a roof, not installing a solar panel, but mending it. Since I’ve known him, he has ever been a fixer of that which was broken. Even me. Maybe especially me. It might be wrong for my heart to be so cleanly divided, but I don’t hurt as much with March gone as long as Vel’s here. He only left that one time under the most dire circumstance—with my blessing—to serve his people. Like me, he resigned at the first opportunity. He is my true north, my compass for what’s right. If ever I chart a course, and he will not follow, then I’ll know it’s wrong and turn back.

“Are you done for the day?” I call.

“Nearly. It is becoming difficult to see.” He leaps nimbly from the roof and comes toward me. “Did you enjoy playing doctor?”

“Not really. They need more help than I can give. And I keep thinking about day seven.”

“It is a terrible choice,” he says.

“What would you do if you knew you only had a week left to live?”

“There is no way to avoid my fate?” he asks, canting his head. Generally speaking, he’s not given to hypothetical speculation.

“None.”

“Then I suppose I would get my affairs in order and spend my remaining moments with those most dear to me.” It’s a prosaic response but perfectly Vel.

Xirol comes up behind me, joining the conversation. “I’d find a girl and spend the week drunk and naked. If I was lucky, I’d die before I sobered up.”

The old Jax would’ve approved of that plan heartily. I’m not sure what I’d do in the La’hengrin’s position. What an awful blade to carry on your shoulders.

Soon, the rest of the squad has assembled on the green, a humble place to start a revolution. Until this moment, I don’t think it occurred to me how much downtime there would be, how much waiting. But we can’t do anything until this time tomorrow—at least that’s what I’m thinking when Loras says:

“Listen up. We’re going to start teaching these people how to fight.”

“We can’t,” Rikir protests.

Farah is nodding, a smile widening on her lovely face. “We can if they don’t hit anyone, if we drill it as exercise and repetitive motion.”

An admiring light glimmers in Loras’s eyes. “Precisely as I intended.”

Bannie follows the thought to its conclusion. “So by the time they all take the full course of treatments, they’ll know something about self-defense.”

“Do you think they’ll all step up?” Timmon asks.

Loras shrugs. “It must be their choice. I won’t force my will on anyone else, or that makes me no better than”—he cuts me an apologetic look—“the humans.”

At that moment, I realize I’m a minority of one. I mean, I knew I was the only human in the cell, but it doesn’t register until I have nine pairs of alien eyes trained on me. I manage a smile, but I’m feeling like there’s a target on my back at the moment.

“Yeah, sorry. I can’t help my genetics. Take your frustration out on me if it’ll make you feel better, but don’t mess up my pretty face.”

That makes Rikir laugh because, on a good day, I’m not pretty. Strong-featured, sure, striking, maybe, in the right light, but I’ve never been “pretty.” That breaks the tension, and I stride away before they decide they’d like to play pound the human.

CHAPTER 21

The next week passes quickly.

On the final day of treatments, false bravado pervades the village. It’s especially tense and hellish as Farah and I finish the treatments one by one. Then comes the waiting with our squad-mates standing by in case something goes wrong. Mary, it’ll be so traumatic if—

And then we’re done.

Not a single loss. I close my eyes in thanks while the La’hengrin cheer. Fights break out immediately, and one of the women drops to her knees, weeping. She rubs a splayed palm back and forth across her chest, like she can feel the loosening of the tethers that keep her subservient to the Imperial government.

Loras clasps my shoulder. “Your idea about the screenings helped. I’m guessing we would’ve lost some of them.”

“That’s not a wholly accurate predictor,” Farah points out. “We lost a few before, and I had their health records. They were good, strong candidates.”

They go off together, arguing, while the men around me stand down. Bannie discreetly wipes away a tear, watching the volunteers react to their first moments of freedom. Xirol’s mock fighting with one of the men, and Rikir is explaining that if the centurions come back for any reason, the villagers can’t reveal their new liberty.

I second that. “True. It has to seem like nothing has changed. Or they’ll come down on you. That can’t happen.”

“Understood.” Deven stands in the clinic doorway. “Is it possible for me to get into the next group?”

His wife, Darana, steps out from behind him. “Me too?”

“Sure,” I say. “It would be a big help if you could take this handheld and enter all the names of those who want to join you. We’ll proceed in the same way, doing screenings first, then another week.”

Deven nods. “In a month, you’ll have treated everyone here, except those who have health problems.”

“That’s the plan. Then you’ll all be free to join the resistance. If you’re interested, we supply room and board…no pay at the moment, and you’ll be sent out to do for others what we’ve done here.”

At first, this will be a quiet, sneaky sort of war. We must build our army before we engage on a larger scale. The key will be doing enough damage to keep the planet on lockdown without permitting them to run us to ground. That’ll be a challenge.

“I don’t have any skills. I can’t fight—”

“We’ll teach you if you want to learn.”

Later that night, Xirol finds a period vid set in the days before humans came to La’heng. It’s bloody, sexy, barbaric, and way over the top, probably of dubious cultural accuracy, but the people love it, especially those who survived the cure. Because now they can smash someone in the head with a rock. Not that I support violence as a solution to every situation, but if you can’t even defend yourself, and you need a keeper like a child, then it starts looking pretty appealing.

While Farah and I do medical screenings, the guys teach the combat classes for the La’heng. The first crop of cured volunteers can spar while the second group practices the movements purely as exercise. The days are routine, but I stay sharp, with an eye on the sky, just in case. So far, so good.

But that just makes me nervous.

In the end, when trouble comes, it’s not from above.

On the fifteenth day, I’m sitting beside Farah, finishing the treatments, when the first patient runs amok. I wasn’t around during the trials when Carvati first described the damage, and when Loras quietly did his recruiting in the capital, I was working with Tarn, Leviter, and Vel to handle the bureaucratic end.

So this is my first time, close up, to see the eyes run red. Blood fills the sclera, until the woman’s eyes are like marbles on a bed of red silk. It’s horrifying—and then she lunges at me, her teeth bared. Rikir grabs her from behind, preventing her from tearing out my throat in two bites.

“Darana, no!” It’s Deven, who just graduated as a free La’heng.

Xirol restrains him, too, but he’s not insane, just…heartbroken. She’s his wife, and she’s dying of bloodlust. His face a mask of pain, Loras holds out his hand for the hypo we keep ready, just in case. It’s a kind death, a chemical cocktail that stops the heart. Loras sinks it into her arm while Deven screams her name over and over again. He’s just about strong enough in his grief to kick Xirol’s ass, so Zeeka and Vel step between him and his wife.

Darana collapses; Rikir lowers her gently to the ground. With her eyes closed, she doesn’t reveal the madness. Her face is calm and quiet when she breathes her last. Nobody moves. I can’t stop shaking. It was my hand holding the hypo that drove her mad.

“You killed her!” Deven shouts at me.

“No.” Loras meets his gaze. “I did. I realize it’s no comfort. You loved her. But don’t blame Jax. Blame me. And save your anger for the centurions. They’ve earned your wrath.”

“Let me go. I must…see to her.” When they’re sure Deven won’t attack, Vel, Xirol, and Zeeka step out of the way.

With heartrending tenderness, he gathers Darana’s body into his arms and strides from the clinic. He isn’t the same timid man we met a few weeks ago. From such tragic moments are heroes made. I just wish the price hadn’t been so high.

Farah beckons her next patient forward. Not surprisingly, the man hesitates. There are five more volunteers in the second group, and none of them look sure anymore. I sit quiet. I’m not talking anyone into anything. They know the risks; they know the potential rewards.

The silence stretches like a taut wire, gradually thinning, until a woman steps forward bravely, offers her arm to Farah, and closes her eyes. I hold my breath as she receives the injection, but she’s all right. And then all the others gather their resolve. There are no more deaths today, but I don’t kid myself that this is over. The last round of treatment will be complicated, now that we’ve had our first casualty.