“Any chance you can tell me exactly how much longer this is going to last?”
“Until we have the answers we require.”
FIFTEEN
TARVER
SHE STAYS CRUMPLED ON THE BLANKET, and I deliberately putter around, giving her a little time to pull herself together. If I’ve learned anything about Lilac LaRoux over the past few days, it’s that she doesn’t like to fall apart in front of people, even when it’s justified. I find the razor in my grab bag and shave, clawing a couple of steps back toward civilization—a comfort to her, maybe. The rough rasp of the blade on my skin keeps me focused, and the silence draws out.
There’s some good news among the bad. The plains make for easier walking, the ground even and flat. I’m confident we’ve left our feline friends behind in the forest. I’ve found burrows that tell me something will end up in my snares for sure, and the armful of unfamiliar plants and grasses that I foraged is bound to yield up something edible. I’d hoped that giving Lilac a break from the ration bars might cheer her up.
But now there’s a horrible weight in the pit of my stomach that won’t shift. I saw how she was shaking, sweating, how dilated her pupils were. Hallucinations can be a sign of a number of things, but I can’t help thinking that in Lilac’s case, it’s simply all too much. I just need her to hold on long enough to make it across the mountains to the Icarus.
“Give me an hour or so, and I might be able to get some variety into your diet, Miss LaRoux,” I say briskly, running out of things to pretend to fiddle with and sinking down beside her. “When they terraform, a lot of the flora that goes in is edible, more or less. Once you’re on a steady diet of ration bars, your definition of ‘edible’ changes pretty radically, I’d say.”
Her gaze flicks up to me, still blank, glazed. I know that our ongoing battle isn’t what she needs right now, and in the face of such misery, I try the only thing left that I can think of. I offer her a small smile—and though she doesn’t quite smile back, she looks at me, absorbing the human contact.
“I’ll test them,” I continue, “and if any of them are edible, we can gather up some extras and have a proper meal tonight. These aren’t the standard plants I usually see come out of terraforming, but I can’t see why the principle wouldn’t be the same. There’s enough grass here for a tiny fire, so we can heat up the canteen for some soup, at any rate.”
She nods, which is a small improvement. My efforts are beginning to calm me down, as well. I set to work, breaking open the first stalk of grass—a stout, woody thing at the base, green and juicy at the tip, about the same thickness as one of her fingers. I don’t want to highlight to her how strange it is that I don’t recognize these plants—terraforming flora and fauna are completely standard. The corporations don’t mess with a formula that works…but the plants here are only tangentially related to the ones I’m used to. As the sap on the broken grass stalk begins to appear in tiny beads, I rub it across the sensitive skin on the inside of my forearm.
“What are you doing?” She’s still subdued, but at least she’s looking at something other than the ground in front of her.
“Checking for an allergic reaction. If it doesn’t make me red or itchy, then it makes it through to round two, the taste test.”
She nods, watching my forearm for a moment, then looks away.
I try again. “There’s a dip in the land to the east, looks like a river. We’ll cross over and follow it across the plains so we’ve got plenty of water. We can even wash, if you like, make ourselves presentable for when the cavalry arrive.”
She bows her head and takes a deep breath. “I expect you to check it thoroughly for me, Major. Knowing my luck, there’ll be space crocodiles hiding in it.”
Pay dirt, it’s a joke. I’m grinning like an idiot, more than her attempt at humor deserves. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Space crocodiles are no problem,” I say. “You just tickle them under the chin and they roll over. I was posted to New Florence last year, and I met a guy who kept one as a pet, shipped it home from his posting in his luggage. He punched airholes in his bag, and the croc made it just fine.”
She treats me to a faint smile. Now we’re getting somewhere. If I can find a way to sustain it a little longer, we can leave the voices behind. She can get some rest, some sleep, and we’ll keep walking. That’s what matters. Getting home.
There’s a sudden stab of longing at the thought of home—it’s why I need to try not to think about my family. I’ve always known something might happen to me in the field, but I never saw it happening like this, with time to remember my mother’s face when they came to tell us about Alec.
“Smuggling crocodiles. What adventures you’ve had, Major,” she murmurs, sounding oddly wistful. The smile’s fading out.
“Well, I’ve seen plenty of places in the last couple of years, but not many as beautiful as the plain out there.” I sort through my piles of plants. “Look at these.” I hold up a handful of small, delicate flowers with purple petals that stand out unevenly against a brilliant yellow center. Their underside is the same gray-green as the grass of the plains, so that when they close as the sun goes down, they can hide. “Just like us, a little rumpled, but still doing all right, yes?”
She breathes out slowly as she reaches for them. “It’s hard to believe these things are just growing here.” She picks one flower out of my hand, her fingertips brushing mine as she does. The one she’s chosen is warped, two of the petals growing together, asymmetrical. I realize she’s probably never seen the imperfect beauty of the natural world.