The packets are all stamped with the stylized upside down V of my father’s logo—the Greek lambda, for LaRoux. My father and his stupid fixation on mythology. He told me all the old stories when I was little, of warring gods and goddesses, and I almost imagined he was one of them. All-powerful, all-knowing. Someone to be worshipped unconditionally. But who names a starship the Icarus? What kind of man possesses that much hubris, that he dares it to fall?
I’ve stopped waiting for him to come for me. There are no ships flying over the crash site. No one’s looking for us here. With a jolt, I realize that by now my father must think I’m dead. There are no rescue ships, so they must not know where the Icarus went down—she could have fallen out of hyperspace anywhere in the galaxy. He already lost my mother. I’ve been all he’s had since I was eight years old. I try to imagine him now, knowing I’m gone—and my mind just goes blank.
I wonder if the engineers who designed the Icarus are still alive, or if his vengeance has already destroyed them.
I shiver, tracing the shape of the logo with my fingertips, as I did countless times throughout my childhood. It would be easier not to connect this twisted heap of wreckage, this mass grave, with the flagship of my father’s company.
I make three trips back inside the ship, my last lugging a pot full of spices and boxes of powdered broth. I make a fire, heat some soup, try to get Tarver to drink. He wakes up only reluctantly, and only after shoving me away in his sleep. I get a few spoonfuls of broth down him before he collapses again. I get the camp ready for the night, checking to be sure the fire isn’t visible beyond our little hollow, that our belongings are all close, that Tarver’s gun is at his side, where it belongs.
I lug some water from the stream nearby and use strips of the sheets to wipe his face and throat, which are burning hot to the touch. I’m afraid to unwrap his hand because I have nothing sterile with which to wrap it back up again, but the skin around the bandage is flushed red and painful-looking.
Eventually I run out of tasks and crawl into the bed beside him. He’s so warm that despite the chill, it’s uncomfortably hot under the blankets. Nevertheless, I slip close to him so I can feel his heartbeat and smell his scent, grass and sweat and something else I can’t name. Familiar, comforting. In his sleep, his good arm curls around me, just a little.
I’m awakened in darkness by someone shoving me roughly off the makeshift mattress and onto the hard ground. My mind is slow to wake, and for a few moments I can only think another survivor has found us and is trying to see if we have anything worth stealing. My heart is pumping pure adrenaline, my every nerve screaming.
Then I realize it’s Tarver who shoved me away. As I pick myself up I hear him murmuring to himself, and my heart leaps. He’s awake. Surely this is a good sign. The sky is partially cloudy, blocking the light from the artificial mirror-moon.
I crawl toward the coals of the fire and throw on a few pieces of deadwood until it flares up, letting me see his face.
My heart sinks.
He’s staring right through me, his eyes wild and glassy, and—I would’ve thought it impossible if I hadn’t seen him above the valley with the vision of his house—afraid. His muttering is unintelligible, his lips dry and cracked.
“Tarver?” I crawl toward him. “I’ll get you some water. Let me just—”
I start to reach for his forehead, to feel his temperature, when I’m suddenly knocked over, sent rolling in the dirt, my head ringing and throbbing. The stars overhead weave and waver as my vision clouds, and it’s only with a monumental effort that I claw my way back toward consciousness, dizzily dragging myself back upright.
Tarver’s half sitting up with his gun pointed directly at my face, though his eyes are staring into space. His face is set in a snarl far more fierce than anything I could’ve imagined from him. The spot where the back of his hand connected with my cheek throbs and radiates heat with each pulse of my heart.
“Tarver?” It’s barely a whisper.
He blinks, and his head turns toward me. The barrel of the gun wavers and dips. His eyes focus, and my heart leaps. He swallows, speaks through dry lips.
“Sarah,” he croaks.
“It’s me,” I say pathetically. I sound like I’m begging. I am begging. “Please, Tarver. It’s me. It’s Lilac. Your Lilac, you know me.”
He groans and collapses back again, the hand holding the gun dropping. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere.” I should get close, feel his temperature again, but it won’t do any good. I know he’s burning up. The makeshift pillow under his head is soaked with sweat.
“Sarah, I feel rotten.”
In his fever, he thinks I’m some other girl. His girlfriend, maybe—does he have one waiting at home? I realize I’ve never even asked.
“I know you do,” I whisper, giving in. I can’t reach him. The only thing I can do is get back inside that wreck, clear a path to the deeper, less intact parts, and find the sick bay.
He mumbles something else, and I slip in close enough to ease the gun out of his grip. He doesn’t even twitch. I tuck it into the back of my jeans, my skin crawling at its presence. I don’t know the first thing about guns, but I know I can’t leave it here with him and risk him shooting me in his delirium.
I take a deep breath, locating the flashlight—and after a moment of hesitation, Tarver’s notebook and pen. I need to make a map. It’s going to be harder to navigate the labyrinth of sharply slanting corridors and broken staircases in complete darkness, but I can’t afford to wait. Tarver can’t afford for me to wait.