“What, that you’re an ass**le?”

“She already knows that.”

Martine gazed at him owlishly as she appeared to puzzle out his meaning. “So . . . you wanted her to think you’re not interested in nailing her even though you are? What kind of stupid, fragged-up mess is that? In here, good sex is the best thing you can get.”

“What makes you think I’d be any good?”

“Just a hunch.” She shrugged. “Not like I’m about to find out, now. For the record, I’m not interested in your ass anymore. You’re too stupid for me.”

He laughed. “That so, bright eyes? I’m crushed to hear it.”

“Don’t come to me looking for help or advice again. I will stab you. But this once, here’s a free tip. If a woman pisses you off, you talk to her. You don’t grab somebody else’s ass.”

“I never—” he started. She gave him a look. “Maybe I did. A little.”

“Damn right you did. Now frag off, new fish. I got bigger men to fry. Or something.”

“Bigger maybe,” he said. “But not better.”

“Keep telling yourself that and wonder why you sleep alone.” Martine sauntered out of the garden room.

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It was a great exit line, but Martine’s words made Jael realize that he’d let a lifetime of raw deals drive him to a number of assumptions. He’d leapt immediately to the conclusion that Dred didn’t care whether he lived or died, as long as he served his purpose, but her behavior had run completely counter in every instance. For Mary’s sake, she’d fought for his life against the odds when he was poisoned. Nobody had ever done that before.

With his behavior, he’d rewritten their tacit agreement without a word, reneging on the deal they’d made in the hallway with hands and mouths. At the moment, Dred was probably puzzled and pissed, so he’d give her some time to cool off before he explained why he’d used Martine as a defensive shield. That had always been his thing, showing people how much he didn’t give a frag when they betrayed him. And maybe she wouldn’t give a damn; that was likely, in fact.

In the meantime, he’d help out in the garden. Maybe he could be useful, if not wise. So he strode over to the two workers, bravado in place of skill. “I’m Jael. I don’t know anything about gardening . . . but I have two hands.”

“Vix,” the woman said.

He didn’t remember seeing her before. She had red hair that must be natural, as there were no salons or cosmeticians around to touch it up for her. A fine scar bisected her left cheek, pulling her eye sideways and cutting through her lower lip. The mark went all way the down her throat, a story, that, but he didn’t ask. Beside her, the young man took Jael’s measure; he was short and average-sized, not particularly muscular, but not soft, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, he was the sort the eyes slid away from, and people didn’t remember his features when the authorities asked for his description later.

The perfect criminal. He was also the youngest person Jael had seen in Perdition, no more than twenty turns. But those brown eyes weren’t innocent, not by a long shot; they radiated a bleak knowledge that the universe was a hellhole with no escape ladder.

What the hell happened to you, kid?

“I’m Zediah.” He didn’t offer his hand.

Jael received a territorial vibe from both of them and took a step back. No handshake. Check. Even after all these turns, he struggled with knowing how to relate to people. Mostly, he deployed the same cocky air, but it wasn’t making anyone smile, here. Zediah offered the coldest look he’d received since arriving on this junk heap, and that included the initial inspection when Dred was playing the Dread Queen to the hilt. Even Einar hadn’t looked this dead-eyed scary, which was saying something.

“If you prefer, I can go—” Since he craved some peace working in here, it wouldn’t serve if he alienated the regular workers.

To his surprise, Vix shook her head at Zediah, as if warning him somehow. “If you’re not picky, we could use your help moving some plants to larger pods.”

“I’d be happy to, as long as you don’t mind telling me exactly what to do.”

“She doesn’t mind that at all,” Zediah said flatly.

Was that a joke? Sometimes it was troublesome being locked up with people who were likely insane and afflicted with any number of personality disorders. He settled on a half smile and was rewarded with a quirk of Zediah’s lips in answer.

Yeah, he’s testing me. Kid probably had to get hard and cold, fast.

The room really was amazing, especially the climbing plants. In a cunning design, the walls were dotted with holes permitting the creepers to twine around and through. Some must be herbs, as he didn’t see fruits and vegetables, but others hung heavy with the produce that went into Cook’s pot on a daily basis. This was a critical undertaking, and it occurred to him—

“Do we have a guard on this place?” As Queensland’s primary food source, it was a natural target during times of war. Part of him thought that was a pretentious word for such a trivial skirmish, but the stakes were the same as in a larger-scale conflict. The losing side would be wiped out.

Across the room, Zediah nodded. “There’s a checkpoint not far from here, and Dred keeps a double guard on it at all times. We’ve got the turret there now, too.”

“Shot anybody?”

“Some of Grigor’s people,” Vix answered. “They’re always testing our defenses, had been for months before he settled the alliance.”

Jael lifted his face, feeling a cool, nearly imperceptible mist puff against his skin. The moisture came out of the ceiling, glimmering like jewels on the tender leaves. A lump formed in his throat; it had been so long since he’d seen any green and growing things. Entombed on Ithiss-Tor, he’d forgotten the freshness of new life in the lungs, the nutty burr of cut grain, and the melting sweetness of purple heather rolling over a hillside. Most of those memories were cut with pain and blood, however, like an infected wound stinging a healthy limb. He had no such recollections untainted by bitterness and battle rage. Maybe that made the memories all the more precious, because he knew with hard-won certainty that beauty could exist, alongside anguish, even in darkest night.

You’re not a person. You’re a thing. You will obey.

He could still hear the voice in his head, a persistent echo. The scientist had been dead for so many turns that he ought to have put that message aside; or possibly it should have faded like other experiences, some grim and some lovely. But he had been crafted too well; and the words were emblazoned in his brain like they had been soldered there. Of all the things he’d forgotten, that he never would.




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