“If that’s what you call reason, then hell, no.”
“No!” I echo him in frustration. “That’s all you ever say—no, you can’t rest again, no, we have to keep moving uphill, no, you can’t use the filtered water for bathing.”
We stand, both locked in place, waiting for the other to break.
“Miss LaRoux,” he says eventually, “I’ll do my best to protect you if you’ll let me. My duty demands that much. But I’m not going to sit here and die for you, waiting for rescue that may never come. And I’m certainly not going to beg to keep you safe, on top of everything else you’ve been serving up. If you refuse to come with me, that’s fine. I’m going, and you can come or not as you wish.”
“Not.” My hand is itching to slap him, but I force myself to remain in place, spine stiff. “Leave me half the supplies and a blanket to carry them in, and you can be on your way. Relieved of duty,” I add nastily.
“Fine,” he spits. He throws his pack down with unnecessary force, and without another moment of hesitation starts unpacking things and laying them out on a blanket. He makes two even piles of everything—the contents of the first-aid kit, the ration bars, the cable scavenged from our pod. Then one pile, plus a small metal case, a tatty jumpsuit from the pod, and a notebook I haven’t seen before, goes back into his pack, and the other is left on the blanket. I feel like telling him to keep the ration bars, since he seems to enjoy them so much.
The major straightens, casting me a dismissive look. “Best of luck.”
He’s waiting for me to cave. We both know he’s not going to leave me alone in this forsaken wilderness—it’s a question of who will admit it first. He may be an ass but he’s a chivalrous one, and he’s not going to let me die to prove a point. I know it, he knows it—and as we watch each other across the blanket, I have to admit a flare of pleasure shoots through me. This is a game I know.
“To you, as well,” I offer graciously. After all, I can afford to be gracious now, can’t I? I stoop and gather up the corners of my blanket. It’s ungainly and awkward as I sling it over my shoulder, and my battered feet nearly trip on the ragged hem of my dress, but a LaRoux doesn’t let those things stop her from making a statement. If it were my father, he’d have walked off into the forest hours ago, head held high. He’d have found a way to handle this.
Snatches of sound rise up from the awful, untidy forest all around me, for a moment sounding just like voices, high and distressed. He doesn’t even seem to notice them—clearly at home surrounded by so much dirt—and just stands there with a scowl as I turn away.
I hope I have enough time to make it back to the pod before sundown, but either way, he’ll probably catch up with me before then. I hear nothing behind me, but I can’t risk a look over my shoulder to see what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter—he’ll come back for me, I know it. I imagine him standing there, watching me go, and wish more than anything that I could see the expression on his face.
I wonder how long he’ll last.
“The situation was foreign to Miss LaRoux.”
“Yes, though I had some experience handling civilians in the field.”
“Ah, yes. The intelligence and research teams on Patron.”
“Yes.”
“What was your assessment of her state during that part of the walk?”
“I thought she was handling it all right.”
“There were no disagreements?”
“No, we were getting on fine.”
ELEVEN
TARVER
I TAKE CARE TO KEEP MY PACE SLOW as I start walking, breaking off branches and scuffing up the leaf litter so even a society girl should be able to tell which way I went. Important not to go too fast, otherwise she’ll never catch up to me. Part of me wants to sit down on a log to wait, maybe write something in my notebook, have a snack. Wait to enjoy the look on her face when she turns around and comes back with her tail between her legs.
This little insurrection has been coming, and though I’d rather she tried it on the plains, where I could keep an eye on her, waiting until we were out of the woods was definitely too much to ask.
The arrogance, the sheer—what is she, sixteen? Amazing that she’s had time to get through all that military survival training.
I’ve been walking ten minutes or so when I hear her. Not right behind me, where I’m expecting her to be by now. She must have stayed in the clearing, or even walked away from me, because she’s something like half a klick back.
She’s screaming.
I’m sprinting before I know I’m moving, grab bag banging against my back, Gleidel hauled out of my holster and fitting into my hand without any conscious decision to draw it. You develop instincts. Like my drill sergeant used to say: Learn fast, or don’t.
Branches whip my face and tear at my clothes as I crash through the undergrowth, churning up mud along the edge of the creek as I choose speed over caution.
I burst into the clearing without any pretense of stealth.
I see it immediately—a giant creature, some kind of wild cat, solid muscle beneath tawny fur, teeth bared in a snarl. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life—not on any planet. Long canines, dark, intelligent eyes. This thing outweighs me easily, and one bite will do for Lilac.
It’s got its front paws up against the trunk of a tree, growling low in its throat as it rakes them down the bark, leaving a row of parallel gashes. Lilac’s up the tree, screaming, though how she got up there I don’t know. I lift the Gleidel and brace it with both hands. Closing one eye, I draw a breath, wait until I steady. The shriek of the laser mixes with the frustrated yowls of the beast as the gun leaps and quivers in my hands.