Monsieur LaRoux acts as though he’s untouchable, but I see him now.
I’ve seen the fallout from his ruthless experimentation, his obsession with controlling those around him down to their very thoughts. Alone, I’m no threat to him. One ex-soldier against a massive intergalactic corporation would be laughable odds. But Flynn sees him too, and so do others here. So do Merendsen and LaRoux’s own daughter, the daughter who can feel the whispers in her thoughts, who can sense their pain. And though Merendsen and his fiancée pretend to want nothing more than to live quietly in their house on the edge of the galaxy, I imagine us all in the center of a web of secrets and lies, searching for a way to expose Roderick LaRoux to the galaxy. If he plans to use what he’s learned from the creatures he enslaved, he’ll have to find a way to do it while all of us are watching.
Flynn and I may not have proof, but the proof is out there somewhere, and someone is going to find it. I will Roderick LaRoux to hear me, to feel the force of my certainty, but he keeps speaking as though invincible to the stares around the room.
He thinks I’m finished here, that I’ll slink off to some dark corner of the galaxy now that there’s a spotlight on Avon. He thinks I don’t still have ways to fight for this place that’s become my home.
There’s only one instance when LaRoux’s gaze falters: when it reaches Tarver and Lilac, sitting with their fingers twined together. They look back at him, as blank and courteous as if he were a stranger. His eyes stay on her, searching for a connection—and in that moment I can see another reason why a man like him might want to control minds.
Or hearts.
LaRoux finishes speaking and sits down, and the Planetary Review Board summons the first in a long line of speakers for and against Avon’s admittance to the Galactic Council. As the day wears on they call expert after expert: scientists from Terra Dynamics and the other contributing terraforming corporations; historians and sociologists specializing in colonial rebellions and reconstruction; politicians arguing about the wisdom of continuing to expand the Council to include representatives from more planets. The arguments fascinate me, the rhythm of the back-and-forth, like a dance—like a battle.
The board adjourns for lunch, and when we reconvene, Roderick LaRoux doesn’t return, and the air in the room is easier, lighter.
Commander Towers speaks, proposing a system of pardons and work exchange to bring outlaws back in from the swamps, legally, without resorting to the executions that ended the rebellion ten years ago. Flynn himself was granted such a probationary pardon; in exchange for his service to Avon as a local representative, speaking for the natives—and, less officially, helping keep the peace—he’s not being arrested for his crimes.
I won’t be asked to speak. I have no official title or insight in the eyes of the Council. But at Flynn’s insistence during the ceasefire negotiations, I was added to those present at the Planetary Review Board hearings, included in the official record. It prevents LaRoux from having me quietly erased. Flynn’s turned the spotlight on us both, and for now, we’re safe. Because everyone is watching.
Finally, the head of the board turns to Flynn. We aren’t sitting together; he’s across the room with his cousin. They’re the only two Fianna present, and a trio of guards sits conspicuously behind them, weapons across their laps. No one is forgetting the violence. But at least they’re here.
“Flynn Cormac, you are hereby asked to testify for or against Avon’s viability as an independent member of the Galactic Council.”
Flynn stands slowly. I can see no signs of hesitation or nervousness. I’d rather stare down a line of loaded weapons trained on my face than this council, but he gazes back at the row of men and women arrayed before him without fear. Without uncertainty.
“Thank you,” he begins. Though he pauses before continuing, it’s a pregnant pause, not so much a hesitation as an invitation. It makes me want to lean closer, to hang on what he’s about to say. “My people and I are called a lot of things. Rebels and Fianna; terrorists and patriots; criminals and martyrs. And all of those things have been true at times over the last ten years. But if this long journey has shown us anything, it’s proven that we are fighters.”
His eyes sweep across the representatives from the Galactic Council, lighting on each of them in turn. “We fight for our home with whatever weapons we have. And if you let us, we will fight for it with hard work and passion, and devotion to this planet. You could not ask for a people more dedicated to making Avon what it was destined to be. If we’re only given the chance, we’ll prove to the galaxy we’re worthy of it.”
It’s a struggle to tear my eyes from his face, but I glance over at the Council representatives as he continues to speak, laying out a vision for the Avon he’s always dreamed of, the planet he believes in. They’re well trained by galactic politics to maintain their granite-like expressions at all times, so it’s impossible to tell whether Flynn’s passion is reaching them at all. But while I watch, I see a tiny, nearly imperceptible shift—as though the man at the end is nodding to himself, just a little.
It’ll take weeks of deliberation before the review board makes a final decision about Avon. And there’s nothing to do until then except wait. Wait, and rebuild; because decision or not, it’s a new Avon beginning here, and this is the chance we’ve been fighting for.
I find myself lingering when the board adjourns for the night, gathering up my papers slowly, watching as the soldiers and locals and government officials and reps from TerraDyn and the other corporations all mingle on their way out the doors. I keep my eyes on them, though I know they’re not the reason I’m hanging back.