This Shattered World

But the girl won’t listen. “I’m supposed to meet someone,” she insists. “I’m not supposed to have to do this alone.”

Even the ghost from Verona has gone.

FOUR DAYS AND THERE’S BEEN no word from Flynn; he hasn’t even gotten the message I left for him at Molly’s telling him to sit tight. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve found nothing since, despite my efforts to comb through the records in the security office, despite examining the security feed of Davin Quinn before the bombing. I find a few frames of myself the night of the massacre, passing through the cameras on the north end of the base, heading for a boat. I don’t remember doing it, but there I am. I can’t see my own face, but I act like me, I move like me. I’ve heard nothing more from Merendsen either—my one lead, my one hope.

I check the bar again and get only a sympathetic head shake from Molly. I try to contain my frustration as I stalk away from the bar, headed for my bunk. Luckily, I’m not known for being all sunshine and light, so if I’m looking a little pissed off, no one’s going to think it’s strange. I can’t remember how I’d act if everything was normal.

Luckily for me, nothing is normal anymore. Our base is now a war zone, and we’re under siege. For now we can still get people and supplies in and out by air, but munitions has reported a number of surface-to-air launchers missing, and there’s speculation that the rebels have them. And that it’s only a matter of time before they start using them on military vessels coming and going.

I punch open the door to my quarters, making the rickety prefab walls quiver. It’s only after pulling off my boots and throwing my jacket over my chair that I see the monitor in my desk is up and its light is blinking at me. A priority message. It can’t be good if it’s from the brass.

Maybe it’s from Merendsen.

I throw myself down into the chair, pressing my palm to the screen to turn it on and register my identity. It takes the machine a few seconds to boot up, my heart pounding in the silence. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for one of the machines they’ve got at HQ that goes from dormant to fully functional faster than your eye can follow the monitor. It’s been four days; perhaps that’s long enough that he’s found out when the next transport is swinging through whatever isolated planet he’s on.

Finally the monitor flashes to life, and I navigate through until I see the message that tripped my alert—it’s from Commander Towers. Not Merendsen. My chest tightens with disappointment and apprehension. Though I know it’s impossible, some part of me panics that she’s discovered what I did at the Fianna hideout, or my distress call to LaRoux’s soon-to-be son-in-law, or that I’ve begun systematically betraying every oath I’ve ever taken in order to help a rebel save his people—and mine.

I expect a video message, but when I open it up it’s only a few lines of text.

TerraDyn’s sending a field expert to evaluate the base’s security effort after the recent attacks. He left to come here before the current situation erupted, but has decided to land despite the risks. I’m putting you in charge of his detail. Given your recent experiences, you’ve got the most insight into what’s going on out there. Be dressed and at my office by 1900.—AT

My heart sinks even lower. How am I supposed to find answers, conceal my connection to Flynn, keep the rebels from overrunning the base, and meet with Merendsen when he arrives, if I’ve got some polished-up “expert” from a shiny city planet following me around the base?

I glance at the clock and groan. I’ve got ten minutes to figure out where the hell my dress uniform is and get to Central Command.

The girl is standing in the background, running a hand through her hair, leaning back against the lush wallpaper as though it might swallow her if she presses close enough.

A young woman with red hair and piercing blue eyes is applying makeup in a mirror to a face familiar from screens and billboards. She’s blotting her flawless lipstick when she spots the girl and turns with a gasp of dismay.

“You poor thing,” she exclaims. “You need a dress, or the boys will never dance with you.”

The girl tries to protest, but the young woman with red hair can’t hear her, and wraps her up in a long, gently shimmering dress the color of sunrise on Avon. When the girl looks in the mirror, she doesn’t recognize herself—she’s been transformed, changed forever. For the first time, she takes a breath and sees the reflection smile back. She turns, admiring the dress, which is the color of hope.

But then the girl notices a spot on the fabric. She rubs at it, but her fingers make it worse, smearing the stain. With both hands, she tries to wipe the stain away, desperate to keep anyone from seeing. She scrubs harder, but it’s her hands that are staining it, and every effort leaves behind red streaks, until the whole dress is the color of blood, and she’s sobbing with horror and shame and guilt, but the blood never washes clean, it never washes clean.

I CAN’T STOP REREADING THE WORDS. I may have found something. Just sit tight. There’s no name attached, but the existence of the note itself tells me who it’s from. “Are you sure this is all there was?”

Sofia, shedding her jacket and stomping the mud from her boots, raises an eyebrow at me. “You think there was another half and I decided to leave it behind?” The jacket goes on its peg, the boots lined up next to her father’s. Everything in its place. It’s been years since I lived in a house like this.