“There’s a trail here,” one of the men called out, crashing through the growth, kicking aside the spindly branches lit up by his flashlight. Lyra knew they were finished. “Looks like something crawled out this way.”
The light inched closer, touching the water now, so close to her nose she drew back. . . .
“Found it.”
The light froze where it was. If it had truly been an animal it would have been close enough to lick her. Then the soldier on the bank turned and retreated in the other direction.
“Dead or alive?”
“What the fuck, alive.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
How many were there? Three? Four? It was so hard to tell. How many were out there in the marshes with their lights and boots and heavy guns?
Cassiopeia spoke up one more time, faintly now. “Help me.”
“Awww, Jesus Christ. There’s blood all over the place. It got a bullet in the back or something.”
“Might as well put a bullet in the front, too. No way it’s gonna make it all the way to base.”
“Are you kidding? You know how expensive these things are to make? Might as well take a dump on a hundred grand.”
Beneath the surface, something slick and heavy brushed Lyra’s arm, and she stifled a scream. She wondered if even now there were alligators circling them in the dark, or snakes with sleek black bodies and poisonous fangs. High above them the stars glittered coldly in a perfectly clear sky.
“Damn it. All right then. On three?”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s bleeding. That’s how it spreads.”
“Not unless you eat them, you dumb shit. What’s the matter? You hungry?”
More laughter. There were definitely three of them. At least three. For the first time in her life, something black and deep and hateful stretched out of Lyra’s stomach. She hated them. She hated that they could laugh and that they were afraid to touch Cassiopeia. She hated their easy way of talking. She hated that she could look like a human, and yet she was not a human, and they could tell.
But just as quickly as it had come, the hatred passed. She was cold and tired and scared. She had no energy to be angry, too.
At least the soldiers were going, and leaving Cassiopeia behind after all.
“It’s already dead,” one of them said. “See? Let one of the cleanup crews get to it tomorrow.” There was the sound of a boot against a body, several hard thumps. Lyra sank down another inch in the water, as if she could flood the sound from her ears.
If there were alligators in the water, they could chew off her feet and she wouldn’t notice . . . or maybe her feet were already gone, maybe the pain had numbed her . . . the idea was so awful it struck her as funny. She might be standing there on two stumps, bleeding out into the swamp like Cassiopeia.
“It’s all right. They’re gone now.” In the darkness 72’s features were softened. Then she realized she’d been laughing out loud, laughing and shivering. The men were gone. The marshes were silent and still except for another helicopter that took off in the distance and swept out toward Barrel Key. She waded out of the water after him, slipping on the mud.
“What if they come back?” she asked, through the hard freeze in her chest. She knew it couldn’t really be cold. 72 didn’t seem cold at all, and the nurses had been complaining only yesterday about the awful heat. The cold must have somehow been inside, lodged in her chest like the piece of metal that got Cassiopeia in the back. She wanted to go and look at Cassiopeia, to make sure she was really dead. But she was so tired.
“They won’t be back,” he said. “They’ll finish searching the marshes, but they won’t come back, not for a while at least. Lie down,” he said, and she did, so tired that she didn’t even pull away when he lay down next to her. Already she was half-asleep, drowning in a tangled liquid dream. But when he put his arms around her, she jerked briefly awake.
“The human body,” he said, without letting go of her, his voice low and sleepy, “is full of nerve cells.”
“I know,” she said, reassured, “ten trillion of them.”
She was asleep again, and dreaming of ten trillion nerves lighting up like stars against a bloodred, pulsing sky.
Turn the page to continue reading Lyra’s story. Click here to read Chapter 8 of Gemma’s story.
NINE
SHE WOKE UP WARM, SWEATING, from a dream she couldn’t remember. The smell of smoke was fainter now. Her cheek was crusty with mud. The shock of what had happened had passed. She knew immediately where she was but not what had woken her. But something had woken her.
She sat up, wondering what time it was. Her body ached. She knew from the darkness it must still be the middle of the night. Beside her, 72 was sleeping with both hands folded beneath his head and his mouth open. He looked much younger when he slept.
Even before she heard a footstep she knew that someone was nearby and that this, the sound of someone close, was what had woken her. She took hold of 72’s arm, and he came awake at the same time she heard a girl speak.
“What now?” she said. “Do you think we can still get—?” But she abruptly fell silent, and Lyra realized she had made a sound without meaning to.
They must be more soldiers sent to comb the marshes. And yet the girl didn’t speak like a soldier, and wasn’t moving like one, either, with a fearlessness born from their guns. These people—she had no doubt they were people, and not replicas—were doing their best to stay quiet. Almost as if they, too, were afraid of being seen.