“I was?” She frowns at me, reaching up to neatly tuck a lock of hair into place. A habitual, familiar gesture I recognize, but a tad too jerky. Just a little bit wrong. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Sir, the records—the facility to the east—”
“I have a lot of paperwork here, Captain,” she says gently. “Can it wait?”
If I hadn’t just seen her ten minutes ago, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell anything was wrong. But looking at her now, I can see it—little signs, here and there. All her gestures are right, the inflection in her voice, her turn of phrase. But it’s all muted. Muffled. It’s like she’s herself, but somehow…less.
“Yes, sir,” I stammer, backing toward the doorway. “I’ll—thank you, sir.”
She doesn’t look up as I salute and hurry through the door.
It’s all I can do to walk back toward the other side of the base and not run; it’s all I can do not to find the nearest shuttle and get as far away as I can from this place.
I don’t know why LaRoux Industries is here on Avon. I don’t know why my commander was being paid to watch me. But whoever she really was behind the bribes and the guilt, that person is gone now. Because the thing that just politely showed me the door—that wasn’t Commander Towers.
I intended to go look for Merendsen and tell him what I heard so we can try to put the pieces together. Instead I find myself heading for Molly’s. With personnel on duty around the clock, it’s always open. I try telling myself it’s because I want the comfort of a crowd, but I know that’s not why I’m going there. I try telling myself it’s because I want Flynn’s input on what’s going on, hoping he has some rational explanation for what I saw.
But I know the real reason my feet are taking me his way, and I’m not proud. I’m terrified, and for the first time since I was eight years old, I just want someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.
I’m halfway there, my thoughts whirling, my eyes blurring with exhaustion and fear, when my nose starts burning; I recognize the choking, acrid smell of smoke. Something, somewhere, is on fire.
My head snaps up. I can see thick black smoke billowing up in the distance, and automatically I break into a sprint. It could be any number of buildings over on that side of the base; there are a couple barracks there, a few supply sheds, even the munitions depot. But disastrous as that would be, somehow I know it’s not.
God, no. Please no.
I’m barely aware of the distance elapsing between me and Molly’s—it’s not even a shock when I burst out from between two barracks to see the bar in flames. I keep running, stopped only when someone grabs my jacket and hauls me back, my momentum knocking me to the ground.
Scrambling in the mud to find my feet again, I’m lurching toward the burning bar when those same arms grab hold of me again.
“Chase!” shouts a dim voice in my ear. “You can’t go in there!”
“There could be people in there!” I scream, my voice breaking as I struggle to get free.
“If they are, they’re dead, and you can’t help them!” It’s Captain Biltmore, and he’s not letting me go. “Get ahold of yourself, Captain!” he snaps.
When he lets go of me I fall again, and this time it’s enough to jar me free of my desperate need to get inside. I stare at the flames, my thoughts grinding to a halt. There’s no sign of Flynn anywhere. I can’t think, can’t feel. There’s no room for grief—I don’t understand it yet, can’t accept it. Not like this.
My heart empties.
I can hear the shouts of the emergency crews, the coordinated efforts of the firefighters, getting the blaze under control before it can spread to any other buildings. A beam crashes down, sending a torrent of flames and sparks shooting skyward. The windows have all shattered from the inferno, and through an empty frame I can see the outline of the bar, red-hot against my eyes. Every breath scorches the inside of my nose with the smell of burning chemicals. Absurdly I think of Molly’s antique jukebox, its red and gold plastic melting in the heat, its memory banks full of old Earth music reduced to nothing more than melted circuitry and noxious fumes.
Someone knocks into me, making me stumble and driving the image out of my mind. Catching my balance, I see a couple of medics hauling a stretcher out of the smoke, laden with a body wrapped in a sheet.
It’s a large person—too large to be Flynn. In an instant I understand who it is and shove past Biltmore.
“What happened?” I snap to the medics, reaching for the sheet. “If it’s just smoke inhalation, maybe he’s not—”
“No, Captain, he’s dead. Please, don’t—” One of the medics tries to intercept me, but I’m stronger than he is, and I shove him aside so I can get at the sheet and haul it down.
There’s Molly’s face, calm and lax. It looks like he’s sleeping, or like he’s faking somehow. But then I see the blood, the scorch marks against his shaven scalp. I lean down and realize part of his skull’s been blown away in the back.
Everything around me slows. Dimly, I hear the medics saying things. He was dead before the fire started. Shot, and with one of our own weapons. The bolt came from a high angle, suggesting he was made to kneel before he was killed. Executed.
When I lift my eyes from Molly’s face, they fall on a pair of soldiers dragging someone away, a middle-aged man struggling and shouting curses.