I hate that I’m here. My ill-fitting uniform, stolen off the back of a resupply shuttle a few months ago, feels itchy and coarse on my skin. No matter how many times I remind myself that this isn’t a betrayal, that I have to warn the base if I’m going to avoid shattering the ceasefire and dooming my people, it feels like I’m a traitor. It was horrifying enough to discover the munitions cabinet was ripped open and McBride and his followers are armed. With this new killing they have the excuse they’ve been waiting for, and that means I’ll be whatever I have to be, tonight.
I duck my head as I pass one of the patrols and hurry down a makeshift alleyway. For once I’m glad for the rain, which started back up as I poled my way here; it means no one’s looking too closely at anyone’s faces.
I shouldn’t know where Captain Chase sleeps at night, but our intel on the base is better than the trodairí realize. They don’t have the personnel to staff the base entirely with soldiers, so some of the people living in town get work here as cooks and stockers and janitors. Nothing high-security, nothing anyone could use against the base—except that janitors are invisible and they’re allowed to go anywhere. We’ve got a pretty good map of this place.
Most of the officers’ quarters are makeshift arrangements. Jubilee is stuck out in one of the temporary sheds, and I’m pretty sure her bedroom used to be a storage area. There’s no real window, only an air vent they’ve enlarged a little and covered with clear plastene to let in some light.
The fear is sitting deep in my gut that if McBride has his way, this could be the day we’ve been dreading. The day the body count gets so high that TerraDyn and the military launch an all-out assault. That this could be the day we lose too many of our people, they lose too many of theirs, and Avon descends into the chaos that’s been waiting for her for years.
I don’t know how to stop it, so now I’m about to crawl through a window in the middle of a base full of soldiers, looking for the one ally who might have enough sway to help me hold our people apart.
It only takes half a minute to yank the covering off. I grasp at the sill, swinging myself up and ignoring the complaints of shoulder muscles sore from poling through the swamps. The room inside is sparsely furnished, exactly what I’d expect of a trodaire’s quarters. My eyes go first to the pale gray combat suit hung neatly on the wall, standing like a ghostly sentry over the sleeping soldier nearby. If she’d been wearing it outside the bar, it’s unlikely my bullet would’ve even scratched her unless I got lucky. I try to swallow the anger that wells up, a well-conditioned response to the sight of those suits. They get state-of-the-art armor as thin as cloth; we get nothing but smuggled munitions and heirloom pistols.
Jubilee sleeps on her side, one long brown leg curled up on top of the covers, one hand in a loose fist under her chin, the other tucked up underneath her pillow. I can see her dog tags against the sheets, hanging on the chain around her neck. She even sleeps in military khaki, though it’s just a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. At rest, she looks gentler. I grip the sill and whisper her name. “Jubilee.”
She comes to life, making it clear why she sleeps that way—her hand comes out from under her pillow gripping her gun, her legs kicking free of the covers as she sits bolt upright, lifting the weapon as she blinks away sleep. A second later she spots me, her mouth opening in shock. I actually see her finger tighten convulsively on the trigger, though not quite enough to shoot. “Cormac.” She gasps my name. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m alone,” I tell her. “And unarmed. Don’t shoot me, you’ll have a hell of a time explaining what I’m doing in your bedroom.”
The seconds drag out as she stares at me. Then she grunts assent, lowering the gun—though she doesn’t let go of it. She keeps a wary eye on me as I slither through and drop to the floor. If she has a comment for my stolen uniform, she doesn’t make it.
It’s a small room, furnished only with a narrow bed, a clothes press, and a rickety bedside table holding a framed photograph. It’s the only personal touch I can see in the entire sparse room. In the faint light through the window, I can make out a man, a woman, and a child I suddenly realize is a tiny Jubilee Chase. The man who must be her father is tall and lean, his skin much darker than Jubilee’s, and her mother looks Chinese—I can see her features reflected in the face of the daughter who stands arm in arm with her in the photo. In the face of the girl watching me from across the blankets. I wonder what her parents are like and what they’d make of the two of us, tense and silent.
I break the quiet first. “What the hell happened last night?” I don’t mean the words to sound like a jab, but I can’t take them back, and they hang there in the silence between us.
“It was the Fury.”
Always hiding behind their so-called Fury. I can’t hide the doubt in my expression. She sees it, her lips tightening. Her gaze slides away from my face to fix on the wall. A guilty reaction. “I didn’t move fast enough.”
That hits me like a lead weight. “You were there? That was an innocent civilian who died, he didn’t have anything to do with—”
“I know that,” she snaps. “I don’t need one of your speeches, Cormac. It shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve stopped it.” There’s strain in her voice.
Our truce is shaky at best; I shouldn’t be provoking her. Slowly, reluctantly, I mutter, “You didn’t pull the trigger.” No, you just stood there and watched it happen.